


Salt and Smoke

by inkonherfingers



Series: The Darkness and the Dawn [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blending of book and show canon, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 78,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26182426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkonherfingers/pseuds/inkonherfingers
Summary: Alysanne Bolton is returning from Dorne to the North, leaving her childhood foster home of Sunspear for the cold and distant lands of a family she has never known.Daenerys Targaryen rules in Essos, surrounded on all sides by false friends and enemies and rapidly losing control of her dragons.When a long-buried truth is revealed, Alysanne's world is shattered and she sets out on a journey that will bring her and Daenerys together in unexpected ways. But Alysanne has her own secrets, and they may yet be her undoing.
Relationships: Daenerys Targaryen/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Darkness and the Dawn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913173
Comments: 62
Kudos: 73





	1. Old Familiar Faces

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea had been bouncing around in my head for a good year before I actually sat down and planned it out, then wrote it! It draws on a blend of book and show canon, but I've tried to stay very close to the source material where possible. I would say it leans more towards book canon (with the notable exception of Sansa being married to Ramsay), but expect some significant changes (the OC's existence being the first!). 
> 
> The whole thing is already pre-written (just needs a little more editing) and I'll be posting about 2 chapters/week. 
> 
> Enjoy! And don't be shy about leaving a comment if you like. Any and all feedback (as long as it's polite) is welcome.

"Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star."

...

"She talks of prophecies ... a hero reborn in the sea, living dragons hatched from dead stone."

-George R. R. Martin

Though Alysanne knew her duty awaited her in the North, she couldn’t help but dread her arrival. 

More than anything, she longed for the warmth of her childhood. She missed the sky, the impenetrable solid blue kissing the rolling waters of the Dornish sea. She hoped that she wouldn’t forget the sound of her bare feet as she ran along the pink marble floors of the Water Gardens, or the way Arianne laughed when she succeeded in splashing Alysanne from the pool when she was least expecting it.

The North was bleak and cold with little charm. It seemed that no one smiled here. There had been no casual touches of her arm or looks of solidarity from her appointed entourage as she had disembarked from the ship that had carried her from Dorne. No one seemed to openly dislike her, but she saw no signs of forthcoming friendship either. 

They were winding their way along the kingsroad towards Winterfell, the sky still and grey above their heads. Alysanne turned to her new maid in waiting, who was riding at her side. Mara Glover was shy and quiet, and she had barely spoken two words besides “yes, my lady” and “no, my lady” during the ride from White Harbour, despite Alysanne’s best efforts. She tried again.

“Mara,” she said, trying to inject some cheer into her voice, “you and I ought to go riding sometime soon. Are there any good places to ride near Winterfell?”

Mara’s dark eyes met Alysanne’s for a moment before flitting away again like nervous birds. “There is the wolfswood, my lady.” She paused, before adding softly, “Though my lady will perhaps want to ask Lord Bolton before she goes out.”

Alysanne tightened her chilly gloved hands on the reins, frowning but seizing upon the opening. “And Lord Bolton,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “What is your impression of him? Do speak freely. He may be my father, but still I have never met him. I don’t know what to expect.”

“I am sure he is a noble lord, my lady.”

Valiantly reining in the urge to ask “Are you?”, Alysanne smiled reassuringly at her companion. 

“Oh!” she added, as if just thinking of it. “You must tell me of my half-brother and his new lady wife. I can’t wait to meet them, though I do hope I don’t make a dreadful fool of myself.”

To her surprise, Mara smiled. “Lady Sansa is a very kind and gentle lady.”

“That is good to hear. And Lord Ramsay?”

Mara met her eyes then, even more fleetingly than before, but her eyes spoke many words that her lips could not. She gave Alysanne a minute shake of the head.

Feeling her stomach tighten, Alysanne nodded once and looked ahead to where she knew Winterfell lay somewhere in the distance, beyond the snow-covered hills. 

***

The courtyard was chaotic. Children ran about holding messages and tools, and riders on horseback were entering and exiting through the gate. As Alysanne’s little party rode through, however, movement slowed and many of the castle’s residents made obeisances at the sight of her. Alysanne nodded to them from atop her mount, trying to smile. No one returned the gesture. Nervously, she stroked her horse’s mane.

Then she looked ahead and saw them, lined up and waiting across the yard. The ones she was meant to call family.

Her first impression was of austerity and coldness, and though the sight of their unsmiling faces did not surprise her, it made her want to recoil. The craven in her longed to turn the horse about and gallop from the courtyard, out of this strange white land and back to the warmth and safety of Dorne. 

She could no longer permit herself to think such thoughts. She must stop looking upon the world with the eyes and heart of a child. Like it or not, she was a woman now. 

Straightening her back as her horse picked its way across the tightly packed earth, she turned her gaze on Roose Bolton first.  
He was remarkably ordinary, she noted with some surprise. He had a pallid complexion and a plain face. Yet his eyes were as queer as she had heard: pale, luminous moons that did not seem to give off light so much as absorb it. She felt that he was not looking at her, nor into her, but through her.

His new wife, Walda Frey, stood beside him, plump and pleasant-faced. Though she was not smiling, she was not scowling either, and therefore looked positively jolly compared to everyone else in the yard.

To Walda’s right stood Roose’s son, Ramsay. The Bastard of the Dreadfort, the Monster of Winterfell. He had Roose’s eyes, she noted, but where Roose’s were intriguing, Ramsay’s were repulsive. His lips were thick, wet-looking, and curved into a leer. When he met her eyes, Alysanne shivered involuntarily.

 _Do not let any Northern chill take the warmth from your heart_ , Arianne had told her. 

Taking a deep, quiet breath, Alysanne moved her gaze to Sansa Stark. 

The rightful Heir to Winterfell looked young, small and sad. Yet she was fair indeed, her flowing auburn hair like a torch amidst the bleakness of the yard. Of the four assembled Boltons, Sansa was the only one who did not meet Alysanne’s eyes.

Finally, the horses stopped and Alysanne dismounted. She took care to accept the proffered assistance of a groom as opposed to dismounting on her own in the Dornish style. Her retinue dismounted as well, and shy Mara Glover took her place a few feet behind her mistress.

“Daughter,” Roose said coolly as Alysanne sank into a curtsey, her face as clear as new-fallen snow. She had practiced for years until she had as much mastery over her face as she had over any other part of her body. She must speak truth and lies only with her mouth, never her eyes. 

“Welcome to Winterfell,” Roose continued. “I trust your journey was pleasant.”

“I have no complaints.”

“Your stepmother, Lady Walda Bolton,” Roose said, turning to his wife without a hint of affection in his tone or gaze. Walda smiled all the same. 

“’Tis such a pleasure to finally see your dear face, stepdaughter,” Walda beamed. “I hope we can be good friends.” Those were not empty words, Alysanne thought. Lady Bolton seemed genuine in her kindness. 

Without giving Alysanne a chance to reply, Roose waved a hand at his son. “Ramsay Bolton, my heir, and his wife, the Lady Sansa,” he said.

With that, Ramsay stepped forward eagerly. His gaze roved over Alysanne’s body. She resisted the urge to draw her fur-lined cloak more tightly about her. 

“Sister,” he said. “What do you think of us? I hope being raised in the Dornish desert hasn’t given you an aversion to your homeland.”

The white, cold lands of the North seemed more desert-like than Dorne, but of course Alysanne did not say that. “I am pleased by all I have seen so far,” she lied, smiling. 

“You certainly look like your mother,” Ramsay said. “You’ve got her queer eyes, at least.”

Then Sansa Stark stepped forward. “Lady Alysanne, you must be tired from your long journey,” she said softly. “I’m sure you would like to go and rest.”

Alysanne hesitated for a moment, glancing at Roose. “That’s very kind, Lady Sansa. I’m weary, it’s true. But I couldn’t part again so soon after our meeting. How rude it would be of me to take advantage of your generosity.”

Sansa gave her a shrewd look but said nothing. Walda, appearing oblivious to the tension, chimed in. 

“Nonsense, dear. Let me show you to your rooms. And Lady Sansa must come with us. The two of you are sisters now, after all. It wouldn’t do to be strangers.” She laughed animatedly and turned on her heel, heading for a nearby staircase. It seemed the younger women were expected to follow.

With a few quick words to Mara about caring for her horse, Alysanne hurried after, Sansa matching her step for step.

But she could feel the eyes of the Bolton men on her back, and she knew there would be more to say, and soon. 

***

Her rooms in Winterfell were surprisingly warm and comfortable. The bed was piled with thick furs, and a blazing fire in the grate bathed the room in orange light and cozy shadows. The windows were large and let in a decent amount of the thin sunlight peeking through the clouds outside.

Sansa and Alysanne had said little on the walk to Alysanne’s rooms, both opting to listen to Walda’s stream of information about Winterfell, its layout, the servants, and anything else she felt her stepdaughter needed to know. Alysanne was grateful, but the situation left a bad taste in her mouth. She could see the tension in Sansa’s shoulders and in the line of her jaw. How must it feel to walk alongside your conquerors, a guest in your childhood home?

Almost as soon as they had arrived in Alysanne’s rooms, Walda had left with another squeeze of her hand, and then she and Sansa were quite alone. The Stark girl looked as if she would leave too, but Alysanne reached out to her, touching her elbow. She pulled back at the surprise on Sansa’s face, remembering that Northerners did not touch as freely as the Dornish.

“Thank you for rescuing me in the courtyard,” she said.

Sansa didn’t smile. Her blue eyes were sad. “Just don’t make him angry,” she said. “Do not play his game. It is only ever him who wins in the end.”

“And what is his game?”

“Whatever he wants it to be.”

“Do you know why Roose legitimized him?” Alysanne asked quietly.

For the first time, something other than sadness flitted across Sansa’s face. She looked angry.

“It is best not to question such things.”

“And he has a great deal of power here?”

“It is Roose who holds the reins, but he lets Ramsay wield the whip.”

“And—”

“And I can’t say anything more.” Sansa looked around, as if she expected someone to be crouched behind the furniture, listening. “He will be wroth with me if I stay away too long.” With that, she was gone.

Alysanne sighed and turned towards the fire, holding her hands out to warm them. She wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to the cold. She would not be here forever, she supposed. 

That thought reminded her of the steady weight in the inner pocket of her cloak. Reaching in, she retrieved a golden silk satchel and gazed at it reverently. From inside, she withdrew a shining amethyst ring with a silver band, its purple hue as deep as the sea. She held it for a moment, wondering as she always did what it would feel like on her finger. But she could not wear it yet, not until she had claimed what was hers. It had been her purpose ever since the day she had been sent to Dorne as a baby to be fostered by the Martells, with this precious ring nestled among her blankets along with a twice-sealed letter to Doran Martell.

She pulled out the letter now, yellowed and torn with twenty years and a thousand perusals. Alysanne read the words again, though she had long since memorized them. Seeing them felt different now that she was only miles from the traditional Bolton seat at the Dreadfort, where these words had been written when she was just a babe in the cradle. The signature at the bottom read:

> Ever yours and in your debt,  
>  Ashara Dayne, Lady Bolton

It was the last thing she had left of her. She had died weeks after the letter had been sent.

Folding the letter carefully around the ring and placing both items back in their pouch, Alysanne removed her cloak and sat in the oak chair at her writing desk, reaching down to pull off her boot and removing the little dagger.

Arguably more beautiful than the ring and doubtless more deadly, the blade glinted in the dancing light of the fire. The flames were too low to see the words engraved on the emerald-studded hilt, but it made no matter. Alysanne knew them just as well as she knew the words in the letter. These words, too, were treasured.

She traced them with her finger, trying to picture the face of the woman who had left them to her. It was a pity that she could hardly use the weapon; Alysanne had always been averse to violence and had shunned weapons training since childhood. Now, among strangers, she wondered if she had made a foolish mistake in leaving herself so defenseless.

Then came the sound of footsteps in the corridor.

Alysanne clumsily shoved the dagger into her right boot, then pretended to be busy with removing her cloak as the door opened and she turned to face her visitor.

It was Lord Bolton.

The chill crept back into her chest, but the memory of Arianne’s words gave her warmth. She lifted her chin and looked into his queer moon-like eyes.

He shut the door behind him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Alysanne asked, wondering if it was the custom not to knock in the North.

“You look like your mother,” Roose said without preamble. “Your hair is the very image of hers, of course, but the eyes are… unmistakable.”

She had heard as much from many people who had known Ashara Dayne. “Thank you, my lord,” Alysanne replied, though he hadn’t really complimented her. 

“I am here to remind you of a few things,” Roose continued. His voice was soft, yet it was difficult not to pay attention when he spoke. His eyes gleamed like grey iron in the light of the fire.

“I’ll be pleased to hear it.”

“Will you?” He fixed her with that piercing gaze for a moment, then went on. “You are my daughter, that much is true. But you are not truly of the North, not yet and perhaps not ever. This is not Dorne, where they allow women and children to roam free and exercise heavy influence over political affairs. I expect you to understand that yours is a position of deference. You will conduct yourself like a lady, and occupy yourself with respectable pursuits alongside your maid in waiting. You will not wander freely or insert yourself into the affairs of the realm. And I hope you are not entertaining designs of being my heir?”

Alysanne was pleased with the clarity of her voice when she answered. “No, my lord.”

“Do not think to manipulate me either, daughter, for I am not blind. I see Ramsay for what he is. Yet familiar beasts are far less dangerous than creatures unknown, foul or fair.”

Alysanne remembered Sansa’s words: _It is Roose who holds the reins, but he lets Ramsay wield the whip_. It appeared that she was right. Roose could control Ramsay, but he could not control her. Not yet.

Hopefully that would work in her favour.

***

Across the Narrow Sea, a woman with silver-gold hair sat on a rock beneath a stone arch, the sun warming her upturned face.

 _The dragon has three heads_ , she thought. _Child of three. Yet two of my children are in chains and the other is gone from my side._

Her sigh disappeared into the westerly wind.

***

> “Some they have died, and some they have left me,  
>  And some are taken from me; all are departed;  
>  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.”

-Charles Lamb, _The Old Familiar Faces_


	2. Blood-Dimmed Tide

As Alysanne descended to the dining hall the next morning, Roose’s warning from the night before was fresh in her mind. She wielded no power in this place. The Boltons were wary of her at best, and disdainful of her at worst. 

Doran had told her to expect this sort of treatment. She had prepared for it her whole life.

So why did it leave her heart so heavy?

It had been a restless night and she had slept poorly, Mara Glover snoring next to her. When Alysanne had learned that shy little Mara was to be her bedmaid, sleeping next to her as well as attending on her during the day, she had struggled to bite back a sigh. It seemed she would always be watched here. Though perhaps that was a good thing, for she would be watching too.

Her family was already assembled at the table, breaking their fast on black bread, eggs, and a dubious-looking sausage, which Ramsay was tucking into eagerly. As Alysanne took her place next to Walda on the right-hand side of the table, he turned his hungry gaze on her. 

“Sleep well, sister?” he asked around a mouthful of meat. Appalled at his manners, Alysanne forced herself to look into his beady eyes.

“Very,” she replied. “And you?”

“Like a babe,” he said. “You didn’t hear anything unusual in the night, I take it?”

Before a confused Alysanne could reply, Roose spoke, looking up from the letter in his hand. “Silence, if you please,” he said in his soft voice. “I am trying to read.”

“Sorry, Father,” Ramsay said, not looking sorry at all. He was still staring at Alysanne.

They continued to eat in silence, broken only by the clinking sounds of Walda filling up Alysanne’s plate for her with heaping portions, despite her stepdaughter's protests. She was not in the mood to eat and she found the food here strange. There was no fruit to be seen, nothing sweet to cleanse the palate, and nothing appeared seasoned or spiced. She tried a spoonful of egg and nearly gagged at the rubbery texture.

Fortunately, Roose unwittingly saved her from her struggle to maintain composure by turning the attention back to himself. He put down his letter with a hefty sigh – the loudest noise Alysanne had ever heard him produce – and took a swallow of mead.

“Any news worth sharing, my lord?” Walda asked. 

“As it happens, yes. Apparently the Targaryen girl has taken up residence at the Great Pyramid in Meereen. She rules as its queen.”

Alysanne had been occupied with discretely spitting her egg into her napkin, and it took a moment for Roose’s words to register.

When they did, she almost gagged again.

The Targaryen girl.

It was entirely thanks to her extensive childhood training that she managed to keep a straight face. She recalled every time Doran had told her _You must tell them only what you would have them know_. Every dinner with Dornish dignitaries during which she had been instructed to keep her face expressionless for hours. Every time she and Arianne had kissed behind a pillar and then returned to their respective duties, crossing paths dozens of times that day with no more than a friendly smile.

She was certain, therefore, that she appeared calm when she spoke next. “Pardon, my lord. The Targaryen girl?”

“Daenerys Targaryen, yes,” Roose said with mild impatience. “Running about Essos making a mess of things. She is as power-hungry and mad as her father, by the sound of it.”

“I don’t understand why everyone is so concerned with her,” Ramsay interjected from around a mouthful of sausage. “The bitch can carry on burning and sacking and pillaging Essos all she likes. It’s nothing to do with us.”

Roose gave Ramsay a look of faint disgust. “Indeed, it isn’t. Until she brings the burning and sacking and pillaging to Westeros. Even you aren’t so much of a fool as to think that a woman with three dragons is no threat to us? A woman whose father sat the Iron Throne barely two decades ago?”

Ramsay shrugged insolently and stuffed more sausage into his mouth. Alysanne continued to fight for control of her face.

She had never been so tempted to let her expression crumble. Doran’s dignitaries had never said anything so shocking as this, so utterly revolutionary. 

_Three dragons._

How was this possible? How had she never heard any of this? Was this some kind of jape?

“And she has support here, make no mistake,” Roose went on. “There are many in Westeros who would be pleased to see a Targaryen on the Iron Throne once more. And all that business with the slaves has led them to see her as some sort of hero.”

“They call her chain-breaker, husband, didn’t you say?” Walda asked.

Roose smiled, but there was no mirth in it. “Yet they say she struggles to hold off the former masters. The Yunkai’i have re-enslaved all those she freed, and the Meereenese elite are very unhappy with the new regime. Perhaps, if we are lucky, they will rid us of the dragon queen themselves.”

Alysanne’s stomach was tight with shock and unease. She tugged anxiously at her sleeve, an old nervous habit from childhood that resurfaced in moments of turmoil. _The dragon queen. The chain-breaker._

Doran had kept this from her. He had lied to her.

She had a hundred questions on the tip of her tongue. Should she be silent now? Doran would have willed it, she thought.

She spoke.

“My lord, surely there have been efforts to eliminate this… so-called queen?” Her voice, she was relieved to note, still sounded steady.

Roose shrugged, not bothering to look at her. “I have not been privy to any. It is apparent enough that they have not succeeded.”

“There are hundreds in Meereen who want her dead,” said Ramsay. “Why send our own people when they’ll finish the job for us?”

Alysanne was about to speak again when she felt something wet against her wrist. She turned her arm over and saw a dark brown patch on the light blue sleeve of her gown. Then she noticed a dark stain spreading along the white table cloth, stemming from Sansa’s overturned mug.

Alysanne reached for a cloth napkin in hopes of tossing it over the stain, but Ramsay had followed her gaze. He turned to Sansa with a cruel gleam in his eye.

“What’s this, then?” he said. “You little fool. Did your traitor father never teach you any table manners?”

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” Sansa said quietly, her first words of the meal. “I lost my grip.”

“And now you’ve stained the arm of my sister’s fine gown. Apologize.”

“It’s no bother,” Alysanne said quickly. “I’ve always hated this gown anyway.” She smiled stiffly.

“Oh, she did you a favour then?” Ramsay asked, turning that malevolent gleam on Alysanne. 

As Roose called for a servant to clean up the mess, Ramsay grabbed his wife’s wrist, his fingers digging into her skin. Sansa did not cry out, but her lips were pursed and her eyes distant, as if she were somewhere far away in her mind.

“It is very embarrassing that my wife does not know how to behave at the table. Perhaps someone ought to teach her a lesson.”

Alysanne looked to Roose, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Would he do anything to stop this? 

_No_ , she thought, looking at Walda, whose gaze was fixed resolutely on her plate. _This is expected. This is acceptable here._

***

The plates were cleared shortly after, Ramsay dragging his wife away, a disturbing eagerness about him, a boy running off to play with his favourite toy.

Alysanne sat at her writing desk, running her fingers over the mark on her gown. It was irreparable, she was certain. The stain would never come out. 

She felt utterly out of her depth. All those years of preparation for this role had culminated in the sense that she had been thrown into the Summer Sea and told to swim to Asshai. How was she meant to fight for her birthright if she could not even defend a woman from her deranged husband at a breakfast table? She shrank from the thought of what Sansa might be experiencing even as she sat at her desk.

But the Targaryen girl, the dragon queen, breaker of chains, freer of slaves. Who was she? The thought of a living Targaryen out in the world, conquering and fighting, rendered her breathless, but she could say just what she was feeling. A hundred emotions churned within her heart, fighting for dominance. Pain, awe, longing. _As power-hungry and mad as her father_ , Roose had said.

Alysanne pulled her writing materials from her travelling chest, so distraught that she forgot to dip her quill in the ink pot. She scribbled the first letter with such haste that she tore a hole in the parchment. She was still thinking of Sansa, of what she could be enduring at that very moment. 

Laying out a fresh piece of parchment, she began to write again.

> To the esteemed Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear,
> 
> I write to you with serious misgivings regarding

She sighed, crumpled up the parchment, placed the nib of the quill back in its cradle, and rested her head in her hands. Perhaps Doran hadn’t known about the Targaryen woman either? But no, that couldn’t be right. It seemed to be common knowledge. Did that mean that everyone in Dorne had been keeping this secret? Had it been some great conspiracy?

Had Arianne…?

No, that did not bear thinking about. Arianne would never have done that to her.

Alysanne had always trusted Doran implicitly. Trusted him to know what was best in all things, to guide her to the destiny she had known to be hers. An hour ago, she had known everything.

Now she knew nothing at all.

She put her writing materials away.

***

“Are people fond of music in the North?”

“Music, my lady?”

“Instruments or singing? The harp, perhaps?”

Mara met Alysanne’s eyes for a moment, then her shifty gaze moved to the right, staring at some point over Alysanne’s shoulder as if she couldn’t quite manage to meet her eyes. “Sometimes, my lady. Are you fond of the harp?”

“I used to play it often in Dorne. Do you think you could find one for me?”

“Oh… well, I suppose…” She looked terrified at the very thought. Alysanne felt terribly guilty for making the poor nervous girl traipse about the castle, but she was like a loyal little shadow. She sometimes left Alysanne’s side to take care of other duties, but most of the time she insisted on being nearby. Alysanne appreciated her companionship, but she knew that if she wished to do anything alone she would have to contrive some way to escape her. She supposed she would be within her rights to order her away, but she didn’t want to upset her. 

As soon as Mara had shuffled off, Alysanne was slipping out of her bedchamber and pulling the hood of her cloak over her head. Not that she expected her dark hair to stand out amidst the blacks and greys of the northern landscape, but she hoped to move about without attracting too much attention. 

Leaving the Great Keep, she crossed the busy courtyard to the library tower, hoping that the bustle of activity would preserve her anonymity. The building was short and squat, with a grey stone staircase winding from base to roof. 

Stepping inside the building was like entering a new world, a world that reminded her of Dorne – of home. A small space of polished wooden floor was surrounded on three sides by tall bookshelves, so high that Alysanne had to crane her neck to see the top. The room was bathed in a soft orange glow cast by small, wavering torches on either side of the door. In contrast to the bleak, grey world outside, the library tower seemed full of life, despite the total silence within. She breathed in deeply through her nose. The smell of books was the same everywhere, it seemed. 

A sudden image came to her, unbidden, of thick black hair and eager brown eyes peeking over the top of a bright red tome about the Rhoynish wars. 

She blinked and it was gone.

At random, Alysanne reached out and touched one of the books, its cover smooth and supple beneath her fingers. She had just begun to pull it out when someone coughed behind her.

Withdrawing her hand slowly, she turned, reminding herself that she was doing nothing wrong. It did not contravene any law she knew of to touch books in a library. 

_You will conduct yourself like a lady, and occupy yourself with respectable pursuits._

Well, reading was perfectly respectable. And unless ladies did not visit libraries in the North, Roose would have no cause for complaint.

“May I help you, Lady Alysanne?” the man asked. He was small and old, with thinning white hair. He wore long grey robes and a short chain about his neck, hardly more than a choker. One of its links, rippling in the low golden light, looked to be Valyrian steel.

“Maester Luwin,” Alysanne said, hoping she had guessed correctly. 

His raised eyebrows told her that she had. “I have that honour,” he replied. 

Alysanne regarded him for a moment longer. Doran had told her that Luwin had served the Starks for many years, and that he was an honourable man. While she doubted Doran now more than she ever had, she found she had no choice but to trust this little man with wise grey eyes. He stood between her and the answers to all the questions she had never known to ask.

“Do you think you could direct me to a book?” she asked.

He smiled, and five minutes later Alysanne found herself flipping through an intimidating volume called _Dragonkin, Being a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis, with a Consideration of the Life and Death of Dragons_. It was a mere copy, Maester Luwin informed her as he handed it to her. The original, with all its illustrations, was kept in the library at Castle Black. 

Fortunately, Alysanne did not need illustrations to find what she sought. And find it she did. 

By the orange light of the soft flames, she read:

> As the storm raged, wind and rain lashing the walls of Dragonstone, Rhaella, formerly queen of this realm, was delivered of a daughter. “She shall be named Daenerys,” spake she, and so the child has been called Daenerys Stormborn. And mere moments after naming the babe, Rhaella passed on into the keeping of the Seven, and the child was sent on with her brother Viserys, heretofore called the prince, to Essos, sentenced to live in exile, cast from Westeros for ever.

***

She was distracted on her way back to the Great Keep, hastening up the stairs, fearing she had been gone too long. The words she had read seemed to dance before her eyes. _… she shall be named Daenerys… Daenerys Stormborn … cast from Westeros for ever…_

It was too late to hide by the time she caught sight of the figure on the landing. She darted aside to avoid running into him, but he stepped in front of her to block her path. He smelled strange, of meat and perfume. 

“Where have you been, sister?” Ramsay asked with a grin.

“Exploring my new home,” she replied.

“What do you think of us, then? Do we meet the standards of those Dornish rats who raised you?”

“The North is different from Dorne, I don’t deny it.” Ramsay leaned closer to her as she spoke, and she forced herself not to lean away. “And I may have been raised in Dorne, but I am of the North. I am a Bolton.”

“Not for long,” said Ramsay, finally leaning back but still sporting that self-satisfied sneer. “Father will have you married off soon enough. Perhaps to that great oaf Lord Umber. You could be the next lucky Lady of the Last Hearth, getting stabbed with the hot Umber poker every night.”

Stunned, Alysanne scrambled for something to say, but before she could speak, Ramsay grabbed her wrist just as he had done to Sansa that morning. He squeezed so hard that Alysanne could hear her bones grinding together. She drew in a long, stuttering breath. She would not cry out.

“But what you will not be,” Ramsay continued in a menacing whisper, his hot, smelly breath covering her face like a fog, “is Lady Bolton. You may be my father’s first wife’s whelp, but you are not his heir.”

“I have no intention of taking your place, Lord Ramsay,” Alysanne gasped. Her fingers twitched in pain. _Do not beg_ , she told herself.

“Good,” Ramsay said, though he did not sound happy. “Because if you think you can take Winterfell for yourself, you are sadly mistaken. You are my subject, do you understand?”

She looked into his eyes. The pain in her wrist had made her teary and her breathing was shaky, but her heart was steady. 

_I will never be your subject_ , she thought. 

Aloud, she said only, “Yes, my lord.”

He released her, the jarring motion generating another wave of pain in her wrist, but he did not move away. “Follow me, then, my lady,” he said. “And let me introduce you to my pet.” He walked away, not bothering to look at her to see whether she was following. Hating herself, Alysanne walked after him.

They reached an ornate oak door that Alysanne assumed must lead into Ramsay’s rooms. _Seven hells, she thought, suddenly more frightened than she had ever been in her life, is he about to have his way with me?_ In her panic, her careful mask of indifference slipped.

He turned, saw the naked fear on her face, and laughed. It was a sharp bark. “Worry not, dear sister,” he said. “I’m not going to take advantage of you. Is that the Dornish way, for brother to lie with sister? Did your foster brothers lay with you? Did little Quentyn Martell like to touch your cunt?”

Alysanne had never been spoken to that way, and it filled her with revulsion. How could Ramsay stand there and say those things to his own sister?

And anyway, it was Arianne who had touched her cunt, not Quentyn. 

Let him think her pure and virginal. It was better that way.

Ramsay’s rooms were larger and darker than her own. Heavy drapes were drawn over the windows, allowing only a thin sliver of grey light to enter. She looked about her, but Sansa was nowhere to be seen. In front of the window stood the hunched figure of a man. With a sinking feeling, she recalled Ramsay’s words. _Let me introduce you to my pet._

“Reek,” Ramsay said, and Alysanne wondered if that was the man’s name, for he immediately shuffled forward. 

The sight of him was appalling. He was emaciated, the skin around his face and neck loose as if he had lost a lot of weight in a short time. His hair was snowy white and thin, and as he bowed, Alysanne noticed that one of his hands appeared to be short a few fingers. A foul smell hung around him, of unwashed body and feces. In the gloom, he looked like some sort of sad, grotesque monster. For all that Doran had tried to prepare her, he could never have predicted this. And for all that she was furious at Doran over his lies and betrayal, she had never wanted to be with him, to be in Sunspear, so much as she did as she looked upon the evidence of Ramsay’s cruelty. This poor man was a living tale of horrors that she could only begin to imagine.

But imagine them - and face them - she would. 

“Hello,” she said. “I am Alysanne. Who are you?”

“Do not speak to him,” Ramsay snapped. “He answers only to me. This is Reek, my faithful servant. You might know him by another name.” His tone shifted to one of cajoling. “Go on, Reek, tell her your name.” Somehow, Ramsay’s gentleness was even more offensive than his aggression.

“Master, I have no other name,” the man said in a rasping, frightened voice.

“Certainly you do, Reek. You remember. Tell the lady your name. I command it.”

“My name is Reek.” He was growing distressed now. Despite the dimness of the room, Alysanne could see the whites of his eyes as they darted from her to Ramsay.

There was a long, tense silence. Then Ramsay smiled. “Good boy, Reek,” he praised. Alysanne’s skin crawled. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she told Reek softly. Ramsay scowled at her, then lunged for her and grabbed her wrist again. This time, she could not hold back a cry of pain.

“A pleasure, is it?” he asked. “You shan’t be pleased for long. The pathetic creature you look upon now, sweet sister, was once Theon Greyjoy. Very handsome, he was, and greatly admired by ladies and gentlemen alike. He was lord of this very castle for a time, you know. But we struck him down, in the end.”

***

That night, for the first time in many moons, Alysanne dreamt of her. 

She appeared as she always did: sixteen years old, the silky black ringlets of her hair shining. Her smile, however, was the most radiant thing of all. 

The dream began as it always did, with Arianne reaching out a hand to her. Alysanne took it, basking in the feel of warm, soft skin against her own. 

The dream was old, but when Arianne spoke, the words were new.

“You hold on to me still,” she said to Alysanne, and her smile faded. “You follow me though I lead you to nothing but grief.”

“That’s not true,” Alysanne protested. “You were the happiest thing in my life.” 

“Maybe, but that time has passed. It is time for you to follow another,” Arianne said. “You must let me go.”

“I can’t.” Alysanne clung to her hand, desperate.

“Yes.” Arianne seized both of Alysanne’s other hand, her eyes shining. “You can. You are capable of more than you know. Daughter of the sea, child of smoke and shadow. You do not need me to guide you.”

“Perhaps I did not understand it when you lived,” Alysanne said, her voice choked with tears. “But you were the brightest star in my life. And everything is so dark here.”

“Then let the flames light your way,” Arianne said.

When Alysanne woke, her nightgown sticking to the cold sweat that covered her body, she lay awake for hours, waiting for the grey dawn.

***

“The Yunkai’i are growing in numbers, Your Grace. They collect sellswords like a dog collects fleas.”

Dany frowned thoughtfully at Ser Barristan from her place at the head of the long sandstone table of her council chamber. “And how does one lead a flea astray?” she asked. “Gold?”

“We do not have enough to tempt them, Your Grace, not when we already have the Stormcrows and the Second Sons in our employ. I fear this war cannot be won with gold.”

“Nonsense,” said Brown Ben Plumm. “All wars are won with gold.”

Barristan cast Ben an irritated look. “Indeed,” he said. “I should have said that this war cannot be won with gold alone.”

“I agree,” Dany said, rising from her seat. Her assembled council rose with her. She walked over to the window and gazed out at the gardens below, flowers of blue and green and gold blooming under the hot sun. “But the numbers are against us.”

“Your Grace,” Ben spoke up again, “there is no need to fight at all. The Yunkai’i would not resist some offer of peace, I am sure of it.”

“You are well acquainted with their preferences, are you?” Ser Barristan asked suspiciously. Dany raised a hand, turning around, and he fell silent. 

“Peace would mean compromise,” she said. “And compromise would mean allowing thousands of innocents to remain enslaved.”

“It would also mean that all of Your Grace’s freedmen will remain free,” Ben reasoned. “Going to war places them at risk.”

Dany laughed mirthlessly, shaking her head. “We are already at risk. They call me the breaker of chains, but at every moment the masters threaten to reattach the shackles. I can hardly call myself a liberator if I sit back comfortably on my throne and have diplomatic dinners with rulers who enslave their subjects barely a hair’s breadth from Meereen.”

Daario Naharis spoke up. “Your Grace is right,” he said. “But without the dragons or a swift stroke of blind luck, we will be annihilated in battle.”

The dragons. Few but Daario would dare to mention her children so brazenly. 

“More impossible wars than this have been won without blind luck or dragons,” Daenerys said. 

But would this be one of them?

 _The dragon has three heads_ , she thought. The dragons had their role to play, she knew. But not yet.

> “Turning and turning in the widening gyre  
>  The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
>  Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;  
>  Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,  
>  The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
>  The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”

-William Butler Yeats, _The Second Coming_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few relevant details:
> 
> Dany and Alysanne are both twenty. If you're going by book canon, that would make the year 304 AC. In this AU, Robert's Rebellion and all surrounding pre-canon events happened around 284 AC. 
> 
> Obviously Luwin is dead in canon, but I've reintroduced him for plot convenience.
> 
>  _Dragonkin, Being a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis, with a Consideration of the Life and Death of Dragons_ is a real book in canon, but I have invented the text.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. The Ebbing Sea

Alysanne had intended to write to Doran when she had sat down at her writing desk. She had a heavy cloak draped about her shoulders to keep off the chill, though it seemed the cold had settled deep in her bones. She had gone so far as to lay out a new piece of parchment and ready her quill, the words she needed to say poised in her mind like troops armed for battle.

But she had only gotten so far as the address when she placed the quill to the side, withdrew her golden satchel from the pocket of her cloak, and opened Ashara Dayne’s letter. 

She ran her fingers over the words as if she could feel the warmth of Ashara’s hand guiding the quill across the parchment. Alysanne’s own words to Doran, sitting innocuously before her on her writing desk, seemed empty and hollow in comparison.

Perhaps it was because they were. 

Since she had first read Ashara’s words as a little girl, she had been sure that she understood their meaning.

> Ensure that she fulfills her destiny and see her safely home. The path of duty is hers to tread. May you lay it before her feet and raise her to see it for what it is.

But Doran had lied to her and Alysanne had never known her mother, not really. What had Ashara truly meant when she spoke of duty and destiny?

She had thought she understood, but perhaps she had merely adopted Doran’s understandings for her own. 

Alysanne recalled all she had heard of Daenerys Stormborn, this great dragon queen in the east. She remembered the look on Theon Greyjoy’s face in the darkness of Ramsay’s chambers. The look on Sansa’s face when she had spilled the mead at breakfast. 

The castle was full of fear and dread. Could she sit by and let it happen, the same passive observer she was beginning to realize she had always been?

Watching and waiting were, perhaps, not her duty after all.

 _Let the flames light your way_ , Arianne had said in the dream.

Standing, she picked up the parchment on which she had begun her letter to Doran, walked to the blazing fire in the grate, and cast it in. The flames licked at the paper eagerly.

She stood and watched it burn.

***

The sight of the letter disintegrating, yielding to the all-consuming flames, was still playing on her mind when she left her room that afternoon, heading for the sept. Roose had informed her that she and Mara would be expected to work every day sewing leather gloves for the Northern troops. They would be under the supervision of someone called Septa Joy. Yet another pair of suspicious eyes. 

She was descending the stairs of the Great Keep alone – Mara having gone ahead to take care of something in the kitchens – when , to her great surprise and pleasure, she saw Sansa climbing to the top floor. Her auburn hair was covered with a thick black cloak and her head was lowered, but Alysanne caught a flash of blue eyes and stopped short.

“I can’t be seen speaking with you,” Sansa said and made to carry on, but Alysanne reached out a hand to stop her. She did not want to grab her, lest she cause her pain. Underneath her heavy clothes, Alysanne was sure she must be covered in bruises.

“How often are you permitted to leave your rooms?” Alysanne said.

Sansa sighed and cast her eyes about. They could not have been positioned in a better spot, for they could see both the top and bottom of the stairwell, ensuring that no one could sneak up on them. Seeming satisfied that they were alone, Sansa replied, “Once a day. He fears that if people don’t see me, they will grow suspicious. He knows that the Starks still have friends here.”

“Then why not make use of them?” Alysanne asked with perhaps too much eagerness, and Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “Couldn’t they help us?”

“Help us with what?” Her voice was tainted with unmistakeable suspicion.

Alysanne fought to calm her racing heart and met Sansa’s eyes. If she could plead her case successfully, the two of them could work together to find a path out of Winterfell. 

“Lady Sansa,” she said quietly, “there is a great deal you don’t know, and it would seem a great deal I don’t know. But we both know enough to understand that there is no future for us here. You are the rightful heir to Winterfell. You are a beacon of hope.”

To her surprise, Sansa was looking at her scornfully. “I am not a fool. If I had any plans of leaving this place, surely I would not tell you about them. But I will not leave,” she said, and her voice turned dull and cold. “I am loyal to my lord husband, Ramsay Bolton. Winterfell is my home.” And she turned and began climbing the stairs again.

 _Well_ , Alysanne thought as she watched Sansa’s retreating form, _that could have gone better._

But she would not be dissuaded so easily.

“Sansa!” she shouted, and Sansa whirled about, eyes wide, hastening back down towards her as Alysanne had hoped she would.

“Be quiet,” Sansa snapped, but she sounded more frightened than angry. “If he catches us –”

“I’m sorry,” Alysanne said sincerely. Hesitantly, she reached out a hand and laid it gently on Sansa’s arm. When Sansa did not brush it aside, Alysanne felt the stirrings of hope. “But you’re right. Winterfell _is_ your home. And if you stay here in Ramsay’s clutches, it will never be returned to you.”

Sansa looked at her for a long moment, appearing deep in thought. A door slammed above them, seeming to jolt her out of whatever reverie had hold of her, and she grabbed Alysanne’s arm with surprising strength, drawing her deeper into the shadows of the landing.

“What did you mean?” she asked. “When you said that there are things I don’t know?”

That, though Sansa couldn’t know it, was an impossible question. A few words would reveal much, but they were words that Alysanne could not say. It would be the height of foolishness. Though perhaps she could tell Sansa a half truth. 

“I am not in Winterfell to sit quietly and sew,” Alysanne whispered. “I have another purpose. But I’ve recently discovered that it can’t be served here.”

“I can’t trust you on those words alone.”

“Have you any other choice? You need my help if you want to escape. I know it’s a risk, but if Ramsay finds out… well, how can he hurt you worse than he does already?” Alysanne said with some reluctance.

Sansa shook her head, a bitter smile playing on her lips. “He’ll find a way. Has he introduced you to Reek?”

“You mean Theon Greyjoy?”

“You must never say that name.” Sansa leaned towards her, auburn hair spilling out of the edges of her hood. “Not even to me. The last person –” She broke off, looking away. When she met Alysanne’s eyes again, her gaze was steely. “I want to trust you. But I don’t. You have to prove yourself first.” She started to turn away, then paused, cocking her head like a hawk when it hears the whisper of a mouse in the brush. “At breakfast,” she said. “Not tomorrow, nor the day after, but at breakfast sometime within the next five days, see what information you can gather from Walda about Stannis’s troops.”

Alysanne was nonplussed. This was not what she had expected.

“Stannis Baratheon? What would Walda know about that?”

“Maybe nothing. But whatever she says will be the truth. Walda Bolton couldn’t tell a lie if she were reading it out of a book. And I want to hear the information from her lips, not yours.”

"I don't understand. What does Stannis have to do-"

The main door opened below them, and both women turned away from each other, Alysanne heading for the bottom of the staircase and Sansa disappearing into the shadows above, back to the rooms she shared with Ramsay.

Mara Glover was waiting at the door, looking bemused and a little nervous. “My lady,” she said, “were you talking to someone?”

“One of the chamber maids. Is everything all right?”

“Septa Joy is rather wroth with us. We were meant to begin sewing ten minutes ago. She is very punctual, you see. Not that your ladyship isn’t. I mean…” 

Stepping in so that the poor girl didn’t have to flounder any further, Alysanne gently took her arm and led her through the door into the courtyard. “Very well,” she said as they walked towards the sept. “I’ll just tell her that the Dornish think punctuality is terribly rude.” 

Mara laughed and Alysanne smiled, but she couldn’t resist a glance up at the window of Ramsay’s chambers. She wondered if Sansa was watching from within.

***

Candles flickered on every surface in the room and a fire blazed in the grate. The drapes were tightly closed and the sky outside was dark and still. Winterfell was preparing for bed, and Alysanne sat in front of her mirror.

The low light made it difficult, but she was certain that she had done well. She had been doing this since she was a child, the only others trusted with the task having been Doran and, when they were older, Arianne. Her chest ached at the memory of caring, gentle fingers along her head. Back then, she had felt like she truly belonged. She had been so certain of everything.

She picked up the little box and returned it to its place in her travel chest, then sat on her bed and waited for Mara. Having Mara as her bedmaid had been a mild annoyance initially, but of late it had been something of a comfort to have a companion. Though a flame of hope and purpose had been lit anew in her heart, she often felt lonely.

Mara arrived and set about braiding Alysanne’s hair in her usual steady, quiet way, not speaking unless Alysanne did. However, when she went to secure the braid with a clasp, she dropped it and it broke upon the stone floor. Mara gasped, hand flying to her mouth. She gazed at Alysanne with wide eyes.

“My lady, I am so sorry. Please forgive me. It was an accident.”

“Please don’t worry, Mara, it’s only an old pin.” Alysanne struggled to hold back a yawn. She felt quite weary, and perhaps that was why she let down her guard. “There is another in my travel chest. I haven’t locked it.”

“Yes, my lady.” Mara left her side to open the chest and Alysanne’s eyes flew open when she realized what she had done. What had she been thinking? A wave of fear washed over her as she realized that she couldn’t remember whether she had shut the little secret compartment in the bottom of the trunk. Trying to appear unconcerned, she stood, feeling her fresh braid coming undone as she walked towards her chest. Mara was kneeling in front of it, hand on the clasp. Alysanne put a hand on her wrist, touch light. Mara looked up and met her eyes, surprised.

“Never mind. I’ve just remembered that I don’t keep clasps there any longer. You know, I think I'll sleep without a braid tonight. I don’t have the patience to sit while you do it up again.”

Mara nodded, looking confused. Alysanne turned away, allowing herself a moment to close her eyes in relief. 

That night, she awoke several times, each time looking at the chest in the corner. She would lock it first thing come the morning.

***

Two days of tentative peace followed Alysanne’s confrontation with Sansa, during which she visited the library thrice more and tried unsuccessfully to speak to Sansa alone again. Ramsay even seemed calm and perhaps somewhere in the neighbourhood of pleasant. But Alysanne knew this change in behaviour did not bode well. It stemmed from the sating of Ramsay’s bloodlust by the prisoners of war marched into the yard every evening.

For outside the castle walls, a great storm was brewing. Stannis Baratheon’s troops were marching ever closer. When his men (and some women, most of them camp followers) were captured by Bolton forces, Ramsay was often granted the privilege of torturing them for information and, if they were not to be held for ransom, flaying them. Alysanne often heard the screams. They continued to echo in her head long after they had stopped.

It was an unusually warm autumn morning when Ramsay himself barged into her chambers. She was leaving for the library, and had forgone her heavy fur cloak in place of a light blue cape. She was winding it about her shoulders when he opened the door.

 _Seven Hells_ , she thought, _does no one in this family know how to knock?_

“Lord Ramsay,” she said, raising her eyebrows calmly, though her heart was racing in dread. She doubted he had come to ask her to tea.

“My lady,” he said, bowing to her with a mocking smile. “Oh, begging your pardon,” he said, eyeing her cape. “You were leaving?”

“I was,” Alysanne said, noting the past tense. “Did you need to speak with me?”

“Oh, yes,” Ramsay said, looking delighted at the prospect. “We must have words, sister. You are keeping secrets from me.”

Alysanne’s heart was in her throat, but she fought not to show it on her face. Had Sansa told him of their conversation? Did Ramsay have such a hold on his wife that she would sacrifice a chance at freedom to convince him of her loyalty? But no, that couldn't be right. She wanted to leave as much as Alysanne did, probably more.

“What secrets would those be?” Alysanne asked, her voice steady, face blank. 

“You tell me,” he said, stepping forward. “If I knew, they wouldn’t be secrets, would they?”

Alysanne could have collapsed with relief. He didn’t know anything. He had suspicions, and suspicions were as useful as a guttering candle in a dark forest. 

“It seems someone has been spreading rumours,” she said. “Someone envious of my position? I am sure I have few friends here.”

Ramsay sneered. “You have none. I suggest you take care to remember that.”

“I have never forgotten it.”

“Good.”

And here he finally reached for her wrist, as she had known he would. The bruises had not yet healed from his assault a few days prior, but she did not pull away. This was her burden to bear. Suffering Ramsay’s cruelty in silence would allow her, ultimately, to escape it.

 _Play your cards right_ , Doran had told her once, _and the game will end quickly._

“If you should chance to forget your complete submission to me…” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and tilted her face up towards his. He smiled a thick-lipped smile. “I will enjoy flaying you. And I think I will start with your face.” 

She met his eyes. Her scalp was burning from his tight grip and she was biting the inside of her cheek so hard that the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She swallowed it.

“There will be no need for that,” she said.

He dropped her so suddenly that she almost lost her footing and she was forced to grab her desk chair to steady herself. He bowed again, grinning, and left. The heavy door shut behind him with an ominous bang.

Alysanne sank to the floor, her contrived bravado fleeing her as swiftly as a raven on the wind. Her stomach was churning and her eyes watering. She rubbed the aching spot on her head where he had held her hair, the image of him approaching her with his beloved flaying knife flashing before her eyes. 

No. She would not be another one of his victims, the poor souls, dying in agony at his hand. She would not number herself among that count. She no longer knew what the rightful end to her story was, but surely it was not that. 

Though it hadn’t been a fitting end for those people, either. 

Against her will, a tear escaped her eye and spilled down her cheek. She wiped it away. It wouldn’t do to sit here and weep. There would be time for that later. 

There was work to be done.

***

That afternoon saw Alysanne in the library tower once again, taking comfort in the warm, dark hues of the carpeting and shelves and the gentle flicker of the torches. She had spent the past two days becoming acquainted with Maester Luwin’s comings and goings, and she hoped that she had judged her timing correctly today. 

As she waited, she couldn’t help but fidget nervously, anxiety coiling in the pit of her stomach. She was considering all possible outcomes of this conversation, turning them over and over in her mind. 

Then he was there and there was no more time for doubt. He looked as he always did, vaguely worried but with an unmistakeably kind countenance. Luwin seemed startled when he saw her standing so near the door, but not displeased.

“Lady Alysanne,” he said. “Is all well?”

Alysanne made no effort to conceal her agitation. He needed to see that she was sincere. “No, Maester Luwin,” she replied. “All is quite amiss.”

“What is it?” Luwin asked, the lines between his brows deepening.

Alysanne made a vague gesture with her hands, as if that could somehow encompass everything that had happened. “Nothing you aren’t already aware of. Eddard Stark was executed at the Red Keep, Theon Greyjoy captured Winterfell, then the Boltons retook it and now hold Sansa Stark captive in her own home. And we are all prisoners here.”

There was a long silence. Alysanne’s heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her head. Luwin’s face was expressionless.

“I am sworn to serve Winterfell,” he said. “To betray its lord would be to break my sacred vows.”

Alysanne stepped forward. “You need break no vows,” she said, her voice quiet but passionate. “But you may serve the rightful ruler of Winterfell. She sits mere yards from us now, bearing the marks of brutal treatment at the hands of a beast in human skin. She is voiceless, powerless. Sansa Stark is the Lord of Winterfell, Maester Luwin – or, rather, the Lady.”

“Not according to King Tommen’s decree. By law, Lady Sansa is a Bolton.” To his credit, Luwin did look as if it pained him to say it.

“Maester Luwin, these words I speak to you are treason. That you continue to speak to me instead of reporting me to Lord Bolton is treason. But no words have been spoken today so traitorous as those that have just passed your lips. You have served the Starks for years. You watched Sansa grow from a babe to a girl to a woman in this castle. And now you would deny her her birthright? Her home?”

These words seemed to break Luwin’s composure, if only for a moment. His mouth twitched, almost a wince. Alysanne grasped hold of this small ray of hope. 

“I ask nothing of you but this,” Alysanne said. “Someday, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a year, I might come to you in the maester’s turret with an injury. Heavens know I sew often enough at Lord Bolton’s behest, and perhaps on one occasion I might prick my finger. If I do, I ask that you ensure I end up in the maester’s turret. And if you need to step out for a moment and leave me there alone, you would not be remiss.”

He studied her for a moment. “And if this sequence of events occurs as you say, what becomes of Lady Sansa?”

“I cannot tell you.” She sighed. “Listen, I know you do not trust me. Trust has disappeared from within these walls along with the Starks. Lady Sansa is all that’s left. But there is still hope, Maester Luwin. I beg of you, accept the possibility of another chance.”

“And when Lord Bolton takes my head from my shoulders? Assuming I am lucky?” 

Alysanne’s stomach turned over at the thought. “I have thought on that,” she said. She had sat at her desk all morning after Ramsay had left, producing and eliminating all manner of ideas to prevent Luwin’s being used as a scapegoat, each madder than the last. Then the thought had come to her, striking in its simplicity. “Five minutes after you leave the room, you will cease to be my ally. You will inform Lord Bolton that I never arrived in the tower and that you saw me making my way towards Hunter’s Gate. Help him look for me. Show him where to find me. You can hardly be called a traitor then.”

Luwin sighed, leaning against the large desk in the center of the room. He raised a weathered hand to rub at his eyes. “You are persistent, my lady.”

Alysanne did not reply. She waited, struggling not to fidget, as Luwin thought. Then, finally, he broke the silence.

“Perhaps I am an old fool,” Luwin said. “And you are certainly a young fool.” He met her eyes and he did not look old at all, suddenly. His eyes were sharper, fiercer.

“For Lady Sansa and for House Stark,” he said, “I will do as you say.”

“You are no fool, Maester Luwin,” Alysanne replied. “You are a good man.” 

She could only hope that it was true.

***

Viserion and Rhaegal were restless.

And how could they not be, trapped in the dark, unable to hunt or fly? Dany visited them every day, but they were growing irritable at the sight of her, wrestling with combined feelings of love for their mother and rage at being locked away from light and sky. 

Their brother seemed to grow larger every day, and Dany continued to receive reports from angry farmers claiming loss of livestock and property. Despite there being no way of knowing which of these claims were legitimate (and there was no doubt that not all of them were), Dany paid each of them in full. 

Fortunately, no more children’s bones had been dropped at her feet, though Dany supposed it was only a matter of time. She stood outside as she did every afternoon, looking up into the sky, hoping for a glimpse of Drogon. Some people in Meereen called him the black beast, but a mother struggles to acknowledge the monstrosity in any of her children.

And then she saw him.

Sailing overhead, wings as black as coal spread so wide that they blotted out the sun. His shadow fell over Dany’s face. 

He circled the Great Pyramid once, and Dany held her breath. Perhaps he would land. She knew there would be many nearby people cowering now at the sight of him, but Dany felt no fear. How could she be afraid of her children, she who had been reborn in fire, who had risen from the ashes with this very winged shadow perched upon her shoulder?

Then the warmth of the sun spread over her face once more. Drogon was gone.

> “My hopes retire; my wishes as before  
>  Struggle to find their resting-place in vain:  
>  The ebbing sea thus beats against the shore;  
>  The shore repels it; it returns again.”

-Walter Savage Landor, _Persistence_


	4. A Keener Sting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: This chapter was originally two chapters (chapter 4 and chapter 5) but I condensed it, as chapter 5 would have been one scene and that just... doesn't make sense. I'll also be condensing what were originally chapters 6 and 7 into one chapter (now chapter 5), so I've changed the total chapter count from 21 to 19.
> 
> I've also formally established this as a series, though I don't know when the next installment will be out as I'm starting back at university soon and currently working on a Sansaery story. That's not to say that the ending to this story isn't satisfying, though ;) But there's definitely more to come, and I've already got most of the plot for part 2 outlined.

On the fifth morning after her conversation with Sansa in the stairwell, Alysanne knew she could wait no longer. _See what information you can gather from Walda about Stannis’s troops_ , Sansa had told her. 

Her conversation with Luwin the day before had left her drained, and several nights in a row of fitful sleep did not help. It seemed that all she did lately was think. She was growing weary of her own thoughts.

They were seated at the breakfast table, and the scene was the same as it always was. Save for their occasional movements, most of their meals together could have taken place within the same tableau vivant. Roose sat at the head of the table, glowering down at the letter in his hand, with Walda on his right looking unreasonably cheerful. Ramsay and Sansa sat next to each other on Roose's left, Ramsay entertaining himself by making snide remarks and Sansa saying nothing. Alysanne sat beside Walda, picking at her food and engaging in polite, pleasant conversation with her stepmother. Walda was a sweet woman, and Alysanne admired her for making the best of undesireable circumstances.

Over the past week Alysanne had developed some tolerance for Northern fare, though she sorely missed the fresh fruit and little cakes that had adorned the breakfast tables in Dorne. She had learned that the bacon here was usually palatable, and the bread - if heavily buttered - went down rather well.

Yet her homesickness was worse than ever. She missed swimming in the ocean with her cousins and friends, diving beneath the waves and letting the children ride on their shoulders as they pushed and splashed one another playfully. She missed the Water Gardens, with their bountiful orange trees and bubbling fountains. But it was the little things, surprisingly, that were the most difficult to let go of. The way windows could be left open all night so the thin gauzy curtains fluttered in the breeze, the shouts and laughter from the horse paddock as children learned to ride, the feel of lush carpeting against her bare toes when she rolled out of bed in the morning and walked across the floor to look out of her window. Sometimes she dreamt of these things.

But they were the selfish dreams of a child, and her childhood was over. She was a woman now.

Roose put his letter down and turned his glare on his plate. Ill news, then.

“What’s happened now?” Ramsay asked, displaying his usual total lack of delicacy.

“We'll speak later,” Roose said tersely. “Not in front of the women.”

Alysanne turned away as if she hadn’t heard, looked at Walda Bolton’s kind, guileless face, and hoped that her plan would work. It wouldn’t do to ask Walda anything outright, so she would have to draw something out of her subtly and hope that it was enough to appease Sansa. Alysanne still did not understand why Sansa had set her this task.

“Forgive me, my lord, but I have to know,” Alysanne said, staring at Roose with what she hoped was a convincingly nervous, wide-eyed expression. “Stannis’s troops aren’t nearby, are they?”

“No,” Roose said, still addressing his empty plate. “Don’t concern yourself with it.”

She pressed on, leaning forward in her seat. “You know, some nights I can’t sleep for thinking about it. Wondering if I will awaken and there will be a Baratheon man outside my door, waiting to ravish me. Don’t you ever feel that way, stepmother?” 

Walda looked surprised. “Oh, dear. I suppose so. But I am sure Lord Roose will look after us.” She gave her husband a fond smile. He did not return it.  


Alysanne shook her head and dropped her voice to a whisper. “They say these Baratheons are boars wearing the cloaks of men, and that they cavort with wild beasts from beyond the borders of our realm. It is said they bathe in ice and blood.”  


Ramsay threw back his head and guffawed. “I didn’t realize you were quite so stupid, sister. Who’s been telling you bedtime stories?”  


Ignoring him, Alysanne continued her performance. “And I always feel that their icy fingers are hovering just above my shoulder, preparing to grab and choke me.” She lifted a hand and made a grasping motion to illustrate her point.  


Roose was eyeing her with a pinched expression. “Cease these womanish fantasies. You are safe within the walls of Winterfell.”  


Alysanne drew breath to reply, but something gave her pause.  


_Within the walls of Winterfell._

Alysanne almost flinched as the realization struck her. With dawning clarity, she understood what Sansa wanted from Walda, and she knew why.

When Stannis’s troops drew near, most of the guards and soldiers at Winterfell would ride out to meet them, along with Ramsay and Roose. The castle would be almost empty. There would be few people left within the walls to watch over Sansa and Alysanne.

That would be the day of their escape.

But would Walda know specific details? Indeed, it was possible. Even the most taciturn men were apt to share such things with their wives. And Roose had been sending outriders to scout the Baratheon army. Had they returned with an estimate of Stannis’s arrival date?

There was nothing to do but try. “Pleading my lord’s pardon, but of course you would say so. We ladies are so helpless. And even if I did want to learn to defend myself, well... how long would it take to master the use of a sword? Years, at least. And we can’t have more than one week before Stannis’s armies are at our doorstep. Isn’t that right, stepmother?”

“About ten days,” Walda replied.

She realized her mistake, but by then it was too late. Her eyes went round and she pressed her lips together, her usual cheery countenance fading and a look of anxiety and self-reproach taking its place. Roose’s face remained composed, but his eyes flashed with irritation. He had not wanted that information revealed beyond his innermost circle. But it couldn't be taken back.

A short silence followed, and Alysanne hurried to fill it lest Roose or Ramsay realize what her plan had been. “Perhaps it’s only homesickness that makes me so nervous. I ought to go and see Maester Luwin for some kind of sleeping draught.” Her voice was steady, but she felt almost giddy. Sansa had been right. Despite Roose’s aversion to discussing matters of war in front of women, he was willing, as most men were, to make an exception for his wife.

“That’s a fine idea," Walda replied. She seemed eager to turn the subject away from Stannis. "Did you know that I used to love collecting plants as a girl and mixing up little potions of my own?"

Alysanne listened attentively to the stories of Walda's childhood that followed, feeling guilty for placing her in such a difficult position. Nonetheless, she didn’t believe that Walda was in any danger at Roose's hands. He was not a kind man, but he was not a fool and would not risk the Frey alliance. Walda’s father was too important.

After about five minutes of listening to Walda talk about the finer points of plant collection in the boggy grounds of the Riverlands, Alysanne glanced at Sansa. Her face was as carefully smooth as Alysanne’s own, but she knew they were thinking the same thing.

_We leave in ten days._

*** 

Two days later, Alysanne and Mara were sitting in Alysanne’s bedchamber reading when Alysanne looked up from her book and broke the companionable silence.

“I’ve been thinking about dogs.”

Mara started a little at the sudden noise, then frowned. “Dogs, my lady?”

“I’ve never had one of my own. Surely there must be plenty of dogs in the kennel besides Ramsay’s? I was thinking of paying them a visit and choosing one for myself.”

“I suppose so. Perhaps my lady can visit the kennels alone? I have an unfinished task that must be seen to. I hope you’ll forgive me. It’s rather important.” She looked wary, and Alysanne wondered if she was afraid of dogs. Whatever the reason, it suited Alysanne's purposes, as she was saved the trouble of having to find some excuse to go alone.

“It’s no trouble. I know you’re often busy.” Seized with a sudden surge of affection for the loyal, hardworking girl, Alysanne reached out and took Mara’s hands in her own. “I know you Northerners aren’t so keen on touching,” Alysanne said, “but you must know how much I appreciate all you do for me. It can’t have been easy to come here to serve a strange woman in an unfamiliar castle, and you do such an admirable job.”

Mara looked down, seeming as shy as when they first met. “My lady is far too kind.”

“Not at all,” Alysanne said. She let Mara’s hands go, feeling suddenly rather embarrassed at her outburst. “I will let you go. Have a good afternoon.”

“Thank you, my lady.” With a graceful curtsy, Mara was gone.

Alysanne suddenly felt more lonely than ever. She was surrounded by people, yet she felt as if she were stranded on an island, watching a thousand ships go by. Seeing everything, but connecting with no one. This was not her world.

The task before her may prove lonelier still. She was risking her entire legacy and giving up her life's purpose in order to take hold of what might be an impossible chance. But she felt it in her gut: this was right. It was as Ashara's letter had said: _the path of duty is hers to tread_. Duty looked different now, that was all.

As she made her way to the kennels, she thought of the dragon queen, Daenerys. It made something hot like fire unfurl in her belly and wind its way up towards her heart. All the way to the kennels, Alysanne tried to conjure up a picture of her face. Once she made it to the courtyard, however, she turned her focus to the present. She couldn’t afford to become distracted.

The kennel master was Ben Bones, a man of perhaps fifty and a companion of Ramsay’s. He wasn’t as cruel as most of Ramsay’s followers, but he would remain utterly loyal to the Boltons as long as it was convenient. Fortunately, he was not in the kennels now, and Alysanne was able to slip through the entrance uninterrupted.

Once safely ensconced in the shadows at the end of the hall, Alysanne looked over her shoulder at the courtyard. Ramsay had taken his entourage and his vicious hounds out hunting an hour ago, and would hopefully not be back for another two hours at least. Alysanne continued on past two more cages, not sparing a glance at the hounds within. There was only one that she wanted to see, and he wasn’t a dog.

She found him. There, sleeping on his own in a pile of straw, was Theon Greyjoy.

Pity tugged at Alysanne’s heart. She knew of his horrible deeds - the capture of Winterfell, the murder of the innocent Stark boys - yet she couldn’t help but feel sad for him, to wonder what he could have been had he chosen a different path or ended up in the hands of someone besides the Boltons. He had been a hostage to Eddard Stark since he was a boy, and now he was held captive in Winterfell again.

Sansa had been reluctant to involve him, but had warmed to the idea when Alysanne had mentioned that he could be useful in helping her get from the maester's tower to the Great Keep, where she would let Sansa out of Ramsay's bedchamber. Only then had she reluctantly given Alysanne permission to speak with him. _I've asked him for help before,_ Sansa had told her. _But he is lost now._. Alysanne didn't believe that. He should have a chance at justice, at an opportunity to make up for what he had done.

“Theon,” she whispered, glancing back at the near-empty courtyard. She had expected to have to say his name several times, but he jerked awake instantly, eyes darting back and forth. When he saw her, he flinched.

“Not Theon,” he said in that awful broken voice. “Reek!”

“No,” she said, soothingly but firmly. “You’re not Reek. You are Theon, son of Balon Greyjoy and Alannys Harlaw. You're an… Ironborn, isn’t that what you say?”

“No!” His voice was rising in pitch. Alysanne looked over her shoulder anxiously. “Please! I’m just Reek, I serve Lord Ramsay. I’m Reek, that’s all I am. My name is Reek. It rhymes with freak.”

“Hush,” Alysanne whispered, holding the kennel bars in her hands and pressing her face against them. “It’s alright. I won’t hurt you.”

“Yes, you will.”

Protesting was obviously going to do no good. He had been tricked too many times. And she was a Bolton, was she not? When had the name of Bolton ever been kind to Theon Greyjoy?

“Very well," Alysanne sighed, leaning back. "What good is a name, anyway? Names only have as much power as we give them. Whether your name is Reek or Theon, you know who you are. And…”

This was the cruel part, the part she hated herself for. But it needed to be said.

“And you remember what you did to the Starks.”

His face crumpled. “Not me. That was Theon Greyjoy.”

“Theon Greyjoy. Reek. Lord of Winterfell. Turncloak. Hostage. All different names for the same person, the same heart, the same hands. You know what you did, and you will live with it until the end of your days. But I want your days to be long, if you take my meaning, so you might make up for it.”

He took a shuddering breath, and when he spoke next he seemed less certain. “Theon Greyjoy has already made up for it. Theon Greyjoy is dead. Lord Ramsay killed him."

“Then how do you sit here drawing breath? No matter what happened in the past, you have a chance to retake all you have lost, and I don’t mean castles or thrones or titles. I speak of honour and dignity. They are within your grasp.”

Their eyes met through the bars of the kennel. Theon was leaning towards her, intent on her words, but his mouth was set in a firm line. His gaze was fearful and hesitant. He couldn’t know it, but Alysanne was hesitant too. She didn’t know whether he could be fully trusted, and to give too much away would be a foolish misstep.

“Soon, there will be a sign. A light in the darkness. When you see it, come to the maester’s tower.”

Theon looked about to say something when the sound of shouts and the clattering of hooves rang out from behind them.

Ramsay’s hunting party had returned.

The distinctive sound of Ramsay’s unpleasant laugh echoed along the stone hallway. Theon cringed and slunk backwards, and Alysanne leapt to her feet. Why were they back so soon?

Alysanne looked around her and saw no means of escape, only solid stone. She backed further into the corner, but it seemed futile. From the end of the long hall she could see around half the courtyard, so she had a clear view of Ramsay cantering in on his steed, Blood. He leapt off before the horse had come to a complete stop, and stumbled a few feet upon landing. He was too far away for her to see his expression, but judging by his manner, he was angry. From somewhere out of sight came the baying of his hounds. Not far behind would be Ben Bones, charged with bringing the dogs to the kennels.

“Take the horse,” Ramsay shouted at his squire, voice carrying easily. “Damon, bring me my flaying knife.”

Alysanne went cold. She looked at Theon, who seemed stricken with horror. They couldn’t know who was about to be on the receiving end of Ramsay’s wrath, or for what reason - if any. Two days ago, Ramsay had stripped the skin off a prisoner’s hand without provocation and fed it to his hounds. The man was a valuable hostage - a bannerman sworn to House Baratheon - but that had not stopped Ramsay. Roose had been furious when he had found out.

“They were hunting a girl,” Theon said quietly. He didn’t sound like Reek, then, but like a man who had witnessed many horrors and was growing desperately, achingly weary of them. “Her name was Wylla. She worked in the kitchens."

Alysanne knew Wylla. She was smart as a whip and friendly, with lively hazel eyes. Whenever she saw Alysanne pass by the kitchens, she gave her a slice of warm buttered bread. In the evenings, Alysanne would sometimes bring her books from Winterfell’s library. They didn’t talk often, but she had told Alysanne that she wanted to write books of her own someday.

Winterfell was a dangerous place for women like Wylla. Women who were memorable.

Determinedly, Alysanne swallowed around the lump in her throat. If what Theon said was true, why would Ramsay be so angry? He looked forward to those particular hunts more than anything. They were his favourite sport. Then the answer dawned on her, and her heart filled with fresh hope.

Theon gave voice to her thoughts. “She escaped.” His voice was filled with wonder.

The barking of the dogs grew louder. Alysanne looked about her again, already preparing what she was going to say to Ben Bones to explain her presence here.

Then Theon spoke. “There’s a door in the back of one of the cells.” Alysanne met his eyes and saw the shadow of a man within. “It leads into the godswood.” He smiled then, and it was a broken thing. Half his teeth were missing.

She turned and fled.

****

Theon had told her true. In the rear corner of the last cell on the left-hand side of the kennels was a wooden door, stiff and rotten with disuse and lack of repair. It had creaked alarmingly loudly when she had pushed it open, and she had shut it as quietly as she could before hastening into the godswood, heart hammering in her chest.

Had it been enough? Had she convinced him? Her words sounded feeble to her own ears now, and when she thought of Wylla the ache in her chest became almost unbearable. Had she truly escaped? If so, where would she go?

Alysanne shook her head to clear her mind, the dark strands of her hair whispering along her cloak in the silence of the godswood. These thoughts would not serve. Questions would only lead to more questions. She had to harden her mind, if not her heart. Just as Doran had taught her.

The godswood was as dark and dreary as the rest of Winterfell, but after a few moments of leaning against a large oak tree and catching her breath, Alysanne had grown calm in its stillness. She had never been religious, and most people in Dorne did not practice the faith of the Old Gods, but she felt surrounded by an unknown presence. Not watched, but encircled. She was alone, but in the ancient company of the trees, it didn’t feel that way.

The snow was soft under her feet, and leaves above her head blocked out the grey sky. She knew from Walda’s introductory speech on her first day at the castle that the center of the wood held an ancient weirwood called a heart tree, with a face carved into its trunk. She imagined that the heart tree did not receive much companionship these days. The Boltons did not strike her as pious.

Yet she did not venture toward the heart tree either. She felt that it was not her place to lay eyes on it, she who did not keep the faith of the Old Gods and who lived as a Bolton in a castle that belonged to the Starks. If there was truly an ancient presence within the tree, she couldn’t bear to look the carved face in the eye.

Instead she made her way towards a small pool, its surface like black glass. She stood on the very edge of it, her deep blue skirt almost touching the water. It was beautiful in a sombre way, but it seemed a poor imitation of the waters of her childhood. They had been brilliant blue and green and, when they had reflected the golden glare of the sun, they had turned shiny and golden like thousands of glittering gems.

She wondered if Sansa Stark had ever come and stood by the pools like this, looking at her reflection in the still waters. She must have, when the world had been simple and good. Or, she supposed, when it had seemed that way.

As a girl, Alysanne had often wandered down to one pool in the Water Gardens, one she had called the Lonely Pool, as it was so far from the main halls of the palace that the children rarely played in it. Pitying it for its condition of constant neglect, she had sometimes stolen away from her companions to sit in it alone. Once, at the age of about thirteen, she had crept out of her bed in the middle of the night, slipped out of her nightdress, and sat in the pool until her fingers grew wrinkled, gazing up at the clear white moon in the inky blue sky. The water had cradled her then, much as the trees were cradling her now.

Not long after that night, Alysanne and Arianne had begun to grow closer and the Lonely Pool had met its second frequent visitor. They had spent hours in that pool, floating and playing and kissing. They had been children, and they had been happy.

Alysanne knew she should go back and face whatever was waiting for her outside of the wood. But for a peaceful moment, she stood alone, gazing into the water, encircled by the ancient presence of the trees, letting silence and stillness play host to the warmth of memory.

***

Sewing was an arduous task, for all that it involved nothing but sitting and moving one’s fingers back and forth.

She had been taught to sew in Dorne, but she had never liked it. Most of the things she produced were rather dreadful and misshapen. No one had pushed her to learn anything beyond the most basic elements of needlework. Dornish women weren't judged by their ability to make a tidy stitch the way Northern ones were.

Nevertheless, she was practicing on her own time in the hopes of increasing her standing with Roose. Perhaps if she could produce something suitable, she could give it to him? Or was that too transparent? If she had played her cards well enough, though, he thought her something of a simpleton, and she could easily give him a handkerchief and have him think it was an innocent gift from a doting daughter. The more he trusted her, and thus underestimated her, the better.

She was working on a simple project now: a red drop of blood against a pink handkerchief, in honour of the flayed man sigil of House Bolton. The act was distinctly off-putting, and it went against her very nature to use her own hands to craft such a symbol of evil. She thought of the prisoner that Ramsay had tortured yesterday after Wylla's escape. She had been flayed, then raped, then killed. Alysanne had heard two household knights speaking of it in hushed tones and had stood nearby, forcing herself to listen to every word until her eyes stung and her stomach had twisted itself into knots. This was what Ramsay was, and if she made a mistake in her plans, he would continue to do unspeakable things to Sansa and Theon and countless others. Getting Sansa out could be their only chance of stopping him. Sansa was the North's only hope.

So she sewed and worried, sewed and worried, thinking about Wylla and the nameless prisoner and Sansa and Theon. Their faces swam before her, all with downturned mouths and sad eyes.

About an hour into this process, when the blood drop was beginning to take shape (though that shape was something of a messy oval), she began to feel a chill. She shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the sensation, then got up and looked out the window. The courtyard was busy, as usual. Nothing seemed amiss. She sat down again, but she couldn’t concentrate.

Then her door slammed open and Ramsay walked in.

He was smiling.

Alysanne wanted to stand, but found that her legs weren’t working. _Maybe if I stay seated_ , she thought stupidly, _he won’t hurt me._

She had never been hit in her life, she realized then. She didn’t know what it felt like. But she knew she was about to find out.

He struck her across the face with a backhand so hard it almost sent her tumbling out of her chair. She dimly registered a blooming sting across her cheek, and the sewing items in her hands fell limply to the floor. As Ramsay grabbed her upper arm, fingers digging into the muscle, his fingertips like needles in her skin, she thought, _I hope the handkerchief isn’t ruined. I worked so hard on that._

Ramsay grabbed her chin in his meaty hand, tilting her head, and she met his eyes. What she saw there almost made her cry out in fear.

His eyes gleamed with a joy more terrifying than any rage. Hurting her was to him as dry wood is to a roaring fire. Her cheek stung and she felt something wet at the edge of her mouth. It was blood. His ring had cut her cheek.

“I hear you paid a visit to the kennels yesterday, sister,” he hissed.

Who had told him? Had it been Theon? Had he broken down and told Ramsay everything? How stupid she had been to think he could be an ally. How foolish and naïve. And now she would pay the price, perhaps the ultimate price. At least Alysanne had told Theon nothing of Sansa. She still stood a chance.

She thought of Arianne and, strangely, the dragon queen, whose face she had never seen. One warmth she remembered and one she may never get to know.

He shook her so hard that strands of black hair fell loose from her braid. “Answer me!” he shouted. For a moment, out of a sense of something like habit, she wondered if anyone would hear and come to rescue her, then almost laughed aloud when she remembered where she was. Then she thought of the dagger in her boot, the words engraved in the gem-encrusted hilt. Would she even have the courage to use it if she knew how?

He pushed her to the ground and she went shamefully easily, at his feet before she had the chance to resist. His heavy leather boots met her stomach again and again until she was gasping, choking on air, blackness encroaching on the edges of her vision. Her hands struck out uselessly, trying and failing to protect herself from the onslaught.

Then he was kneeling down, grabbing her arm again and pulling her towards him, his breath hot and disgusting on her face. The word _please_ was in her heart, but not in her mouth. She would not beg. She would hold on to whatever dignity she had left.

“Why were you visiting the kennels?” he whispered in her ear. “Did you go to see Reek? Having a parley? What did you talk about?”

When she didn’t answer he cracked her across the face again in the same spot as before, and it hurt so much that she couldn’t help but cry out, the scream raw against her throat. The sound of his hand meeting her skin was wet, as though he had gouged deeper into her skin. Her cheek burned and when he let her go abruptly, she put her hand to it, closing her eyes against gathering tears. To her utter shame, when he grabbed her arm again to pull her to her feet, she didn’t resist. She just wanted it to be over. Her stomach ached and every breath hurt.

“Do not think you can conceal it from me forever,” he said. His lips brushed her forehead as he spoke and she shuddered. “Father protects you now for your cunt may be of use to us when he gives you to some lord or other, but if I hear even a whisper of treason, nothing can save you. Whatever game you are playing, sweet sister, leave it behind. Remember where you belong.”

He threw her from him and this time she managed to slow her fall on the frame of her bed before tumbling to the hard stone floor, her elbow hitting the ground with a loud thud. She curled in on herself, gasping for breath through the pain in her belly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a dark drop of her blood hit the floor. She rested her warm cheek against the stones and let the coolness seep into her aching jaw. Ramsay slammed the door as he left, and the sound seemed to come from a great distance.

He had defeated her in that moment. They both knew it. No greater display of his power was possible than her lying prone on the floor, bleeding and whimpering. Her precious dagger sat limply in her boot, pressing against her ankle like a taunt.

Forcing air into her aching lungs, she cast her mind back to Ramsay’s words. _Did you go see Reek? Having a parley? What did you talk about?_ So it hadn’t been Theon who had told him. The thought eased her anguish slightly. She hadn’t destroyed everything. There was still hope.

But what had Theon suffered when Ramsay had found out?

Despite her dissatisfaction with Doran, she was relieved he couldn’t see her now.

The thought broke what was left of Alysanne’s hard-fought composure and she sobbed, quietly but bitterly, for the first time in years. The motion sent waves of pain through her stomach, but she couldn’t stop.

All of this was too great an undertaking. She would get someone hurt, or even killed. What would the sharp point of Ramsay’s flaying knife look like against her skin, or Sansa’s?

As she forced herself to breathe deeply through the dull, throbbing ache in her belly, she felt soft fingers in her hair.

She forced her gaze upward and saw a mane of red before the face of Sansa Stark came into focus.

Something cool and wet was pressed against her cheek, and Alysanne couldn’t hold back the sigh that escaped her lips at the sensation, and her eyes fluttered closed. But then she gathered her wits, remembering where they were. Her eyes shot open.

“No,” she gasped urgently, grabbing Sansa’s hand, “you need to go. You can’t be here.”

“Hush,” Sansa said in the gentlest voice Alysanne had ever heard her use. “Let me worry about that. Lie still.”

“He’ll hurt you.”

“He’s gone out hunting.”

“Sansa, I’m sorry. He knows something. I…” She couldn’t finish, couldn’t admit the extent of her folly.

“He can’t know everything. If he did, we would both be dead.”

Alysanne couldn’t deny that. If Ramsay even suspected the full extent of their plans, they would have been subjected to far greater torment than they were already suffering.

“You shouldn’t stay here with me for too long,” Alysanne insisted even as her ribs twinged sharply, drawing a slight gasp from her. “Please. Don’t put yourself in danger on my account.”

“I’m already in danger. We’re all in danger. Isn’t that what you said to me? But we can't let him defeat us, Alysanne. Don't forget that we have allies. As soon as we get out of here, they'll help us.”

“I’m glad you’ll have help,” Alysanne said softly. “But I’m afraid I'm not meant for any of this. I think my place is here after all.” Another hot tear leaked out from under her eyelid, but it wasn't from pain this time. She had abandoned her life's purpose to chase some foolish dream. She had betrayed Doran's faith and trust in her and had almost destroyed Sansa's chances at escape. Who was she to question her destiny? As it turned out, she was no hero.

But Sansa did not look sympathetic. She just looked irritated.

“So you're just going to give up?" she asked, an edge to her voice. "What, do you think he’ll stop hurting us if we give in to him? He’ll keep going, and eventually one of us will die. And it will never end.”

Alysanne looked away, unable to meet Sansa’s eye. “I want you to get out of here. But I don’t know if I'm the person to help you do it.”

Sansa shook her head. “You have to make a choice. Are you going to sit back and let him win, or are you going to stand up and fight with the rest of us?” She pressed the cool cloth to Alysanne’s face again, and Alysanne sighed softly as the sting in her cheek lessened.

And she thought about Sansa's words.

She thought about Doran, about the way he had held her as a child when she cried, how he had told her of her duty, counselled her, protected her.

How he had lied to her.

She thought of Arianne's warm brown eyes and mischievous laugh.

Of Wylla, who had done the impossible and escaped Ramsay's clutches. Without help, and without hope, she had survived.

Of the dragon queen who she had never met, of bright fires and silver-gold hair and dragons across the narrow sea.

Of the Northerners who were counting on the Starks to save them from the Boltons, and of how Alysanne might be Sansa's only chance.

Legacy, duty, honour. She had to make a choice. No matter what, there would be consequences.

_Are you going to stand up and fight with the rest of us?_

She knew the answer.

> I know why the caged bird beats his wing  
>  Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;  
>  For he must fly back to his perch and cling  
>  When he fain would be on the bow a-swing;  
>  And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars  
>  And they pulse again with a keener sting –  
>  I know why he beats his wing!”

-Paul Laurence Dunbar, _Sympathy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the climax of this "act" and it won't be long at all before Alysanne and Dany meet. A few things have to happen first, though!
> 
> I also have to note that as I reread and edit, I'm realizing that I've been much more influenced by the show than I thought in some of these earlier chapters. The last half/three quarters of the story is pretty book-heavy, but don't be surprised to see a lot of show references in the first quarter.
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos, and commented. It means a lot to me. Hope you're all enjoying the story!


	5. East-Wind Straining

“My stars, Lady Alysanne! You sew like a one-eyed, three-fingered crone.”

Alysanne looked down at her handkerchief in dismay. She had thought the stitching was rather better than her usual efforts, if a little lopsided, but Septa Joy was difficult to please.

She looked over at Mara, but her companion was looking determinedly down at her own handkerchief. She was stitching the impressively detailed outline of a black dahlia. Mara was a skilled sewer, and she seemed at her most calm and steady when she was embroidering. As much as Alysanne disliked sewing, she understood the feeling. When she played the harp, she felt the same way. But she hadn't played since leaving Dorne. The Boltons didn't keep such instruments.

Where she was going, maybe they would have a hundred harps. Maybe they would have everything.

Alysanne switched her needle to her other hand and flexed her aching fingers. They had been sewing for at least an hour, all the while listening to Septa Joy read something called _The Seven-Pointed Star for Our Daughters: The Gods and Godly Women_. Some of the passages were so ludicrous they almost made Alysanne smile, though she knew better than to look anything but piously reflective as she listened.

Not bothering to respond to Septa Joy’s insult, Alysanne continued stitching. She had finished the drop of blood days ago and was now working on embroidering the words of House Bolton above it. She was almost done, but she would never finish it, and she was very glad of that.

On most days as they sewed, the clamour of the courtyard would filter into the sept, but today there was only a close, oppressive silence interspersed with an occasional shout or the clattering of a lone horse's hooves. That morning, Winterfell’s fighting forces had left to do battle with Stannis Baratheon’s approaching army.

The scene had been unlike anything Alysanne had ever seen: horses snorting and stamping, men shouting and swearing, weapons being polished and clanging against scabbards, banners being raised. Despite herself, Alysanne found that her heart was stirred at the sight.

But the outcome of the battle was not her chief interest. In reality, as much as the thought of war had always disturbed her, it made little difference to her who won. Her task was to save Sansa and, by extension, to save House Stark.

What came after was more complicated.

Without changing expression, she stabbed her sewing needle into her left ring finger as hard as she could. The sharp pain drew an authentic gasp from her, and beads of blood appeared on her skin. The blood dripped onto her handkerchief, mingling with the red drop of blood she had so painstakingly stitched and blooming across the pink space behind it like a flower in spring.

Mara looked up at the noise, and Septa Joy paused in the midst of explaining the virtues of female chastity.

“Forgive me, Septa, but I’ve pricked myself with the needle,” Alysanne said meekly, holding out her finger for inspection.

“In the sight of the Seven,” Septa Joy sighed, “I have never met a pupil as incompetent as you. Did they teach you nothing in Dorne?”

Alysanne interrupted before the septa could begin yet another tangent about the many failings of the Dornish. “I think I ought to go and see the maester,” she said. “It’s still bleeding.” She thrust the bleeding finger at the septa again, and the older woman turned away in distaste.

“Yes, yes, I see. Mara, accompany her.”

“No, Mara, it’s alright. I know you dislike blood. Remember when you cut your finger on that book last week and nearly swooned?”

Mara looked uncertain. “My lady, I think perhaps I should come with you,” she said.

Alysanne shook her head, trying not to look too desperate. “No, I must insist that you don’t. If you faint, I'll have to find someone to help you and I need to see Maester Luwin urgently.” Even as she spoke, two drops of blood landed on the skirt of her gown, blending into the deep blue wool.

Mara eyed the blood as it fell. She looked almost fixated by it. “If you are certain.” Then, seeming to collect herself, she looked Alysanne in the eye. “Be well, my lady,” she added.

“Thank you,” Alysanne said, trying to convey more with those words than she could speak aloud. It would be the last time she would ever see her loyal bedmaid, and she knew she would miss her sweet, quiet company. She hoped that Mara wouldn’t be blamed for their escape, and that she would find another placement that would make her happy.

The stairs to the maester’s turret were blessedly empty, and Alysanne hurried to the top, pressing her bleeding finger into her black cloak. The great oak door to Luwin’s study was closed, and she raised her uninjured hand and knock twice, softly. In the brief moment of silence that followed, panic rose in her chest and she stubbornly tamped it down. She pulled her cloak away from her finger and watched another stream of bright red blood trickle onto the back of her hand.

Then Luwin pulled the door open, looking haggard and nervous. “Come in, hurry,” he whispered. She obeyed.

The interior was warm and dark, light filtering in through a single small, high window. On Luwin's desk was a tall, lit candle, along with piles of books and scrolls. The floor was covered in sweet-smelling rushes and a caged raven sat in the corner, eyeing them with shiny black eyes. A second candle, Alysanne noted with relief, was burning in the window, as they discussed.

“Show me,” Luwin said, holding out a cloth for her. She pressed her bloody finger into the fabric and Luwin raised an eyebrow. “An effective puncture indeed,” he said.

“Yes, well. It had to be convincing.”

He had a bowl on his desk, and he dipped a gnarled finger into the salve inside and spread it over her skin. The ointment smelled foul, and Alysanne held her breath and turned away, towards the raven in the corner. There was a long, taut silence as Luwin worked. Finally, Alysanne had to break it.

“What’s her name?”

“I beg your pardon?"

“The raven. What is her name?”

Luwin, wrapping her finger in cloth, looked at her as if she were mad. He didn’t answer her.

“Keep that on until you can replace it. Do not leave it on for longer than a day, though the poultice should prevent any infection.”

“Thank you. For… all of this. I know you aren’t doing it for me,” she added quickly when he raised his eyebrows again. “But thank you all the same. Sansa is very grateful.”

Luwin looked as if he were fighting to remain impassive. “Go safely,” he said. “I will alert the guards five minutes after you have gone. But Lady Alysanne… are you sure you wish to take _him_?”

“Yes. It is the right thing. I think.”

She didn’t know why she was revealing her uncertainty to this man she hardly knew, but then he smiled. “Rhaella,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“The raven’s name. Rhaella.”

Surprised, Alysanne asked, “After the queen? The… the dragon queen’s mother?”

“I knew her when she was a girl. I served her father, Jaehaerys. She was a clever child, and sweet. But her life… it was not a happy one.”

“You wish you could have protected her?"

Luwin smiled again, sadly. “It was my duty to do so. And then it was my duty to protect Lady Sansa.”

“And you are protecting her. Sansa, I mean.”

“I would give my life for hers.” He tugged at the chain around his neck. His eyes were clear and filled with a deep sadness. “But a life is worth nothing without honour, and to openly defy the Lord of Winterfell - even if he is a Bolton - would be dishonourable indeed. I don’t expect you to understand.”

It was true. She sympathized, but she did not understand. Right and wrong seemed very clear to her. “I understand that you’re doing the right thing now,” she told him. "As best you can."

He nodded. “May the gods go with you, my lady. Do not dally.”

Once the sound of his footsteps had disappeared down the stairs, Alysanne pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair and walked through the door, closing it behind her. She went down a different flight of steps until she came to the door at the rear of the tower, which led out into the inner courtyard by the kennels. And at the bottom of the steps stood Theon.

He still looked twenty years older than he was, but – and perhaps it was only her wishful imagination – he seemed to be standing a little straighter.

"You’ve come.” She tried not to sound surprised, but she had been far from certain that he would make it.

Theon nodded, frowning. “I saw the candle and... I wasn’t going to at first, you know. But I want to do one good thing. One thing that matters. Before the end. I want to help if I can.”

This she understood well. “Then come,” Alysanne said. “Sansa is waiting.”

In the thick silence of the castle, they walked along walkways and over bridges. Theon knew them better than she, and she let him lead, though she wasn’t fool enough to trust him implicitly. She was aware and watching, keeping the Great Keep in her sights as best she could. They were moving quickly, but not quickly enough. Luwin would alert the guards in three minutes at the most.

When they reached the bridge between the armoury and the Great Keep, Theon stopped her. “Wait,” he said, head raised, listening for something she could not hear. “Someone is coming."

They turned to see a loaded crossbow pointed straight at them. And at the other end stood Mara Glover.

“Mara, what are you doing?” Alysanne asked once she had remembered how to speak. She wanted to run, but she forced herself to keep her feet planted firmly to the ground. She was not going to die with a crossbow bolt in her back.

Mara’s pretty face seemed to have transformed. Her dark eyes, always shy and shifting, were now bold and filled with malicious mirth.

“I could ask you the same question,” she said. “Why are you out on a stroll with Ramsay’s pet?”

Alysanne risked a glance at Theon. He looked terrified, but he was not looking at the crossbow. He was looking at Mara. As if he knew her.

Alysanne looked at Mara again, thoughts racing as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. And it all led to the same conclusion.

She had been fooled.

“Who are you really?” she asked.

“I am Myranda,” said the woman who had been Mara Glover. “The kennelmaster’s daughter is my official title, I suppose. I’ve always preferred to be known as Ramsay’s bedwarmer. Doesn’t win you respect, exactly, but it does make them fear you. Fear is much more interesting, wouldn’t you agree?”

Alysanne remembered Myranda’s reluctance to go to the kennels, her avoidance of the castle servants, the way Septa Joy sometimes looked at her disapprovingly, the way she sometimes disappeared for hours and never appeared in the same room as Sansa or Ramsay or Roose. She had attributed it all to Mara’s fear and shyness, Septa Joy’s general bitterness, and the busy nature of being the sole companion to the lady of an important house.

She remembered the way Ramsay had seemed to know more than he should. How he had come to see her, accusing her of keeping secrets, the day after Mara had almost opened the chest in her bedroom.

She hadn’t wanted to see what was right in front of her. And it may have cost them everything.

“Reek, come here,” Myranda said. Her smile had always been soft and sweet, but now it was sharp and vindictive. “If you do what I say I’ll ask Ramsay not to take your whole hand. Perhaps a finger or two."

“Theon, don’t move. Listen, I have gold,” Alysanne said, reaching into her cloak and pulling out the hefty bag of coins that Doran had given her. “All yours, if you let us go."

Myranda frowned and turned the crossbow, leveling it straight at Alysanne’s heart. “And what would I do with that?” she asked.

“Anything you want,” Alysanne said, fighting valiantly to keep the note of desperation out of her voice. “A hundred gold dragons. You could have passage to anywhere in the world.”

“I’m happy here. What would I do in the Reach, anyway? Work in a pillow house? How dull. Things are far more exciting here. And when Ramsay comes back with Stannis’s head on a spike, we’ll be even better off.” She turned her gaze back to Theon, but she did not move the bow. “Reek, leave her. Now.”

To Alysanne’s dismay, Theon shuffled forward, his back hunched. He was lost.

“Myranda!” Alysanne risked a shout, and Myranda’s glittering dark eyes flicked back to her. Alysanne imagined how it would feel to have a bolt lodged between her ribs, knowing all it would take was a slight movement of Myranda’s hand. “Myranda,” she said again, more calmly, meeting her eyes. “There is something else I can give you. Something far more valuable.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

Alysanne took a deep breath. She had to do it, she told herself. It was this or their lives. This or the North.

“It was my mother’s –”

Theon lunged, grabbed Myranda’s hands, and slammed them into the stone wall behind her. The bolt shot forth from the crossbow and embedded itself harmlessly in the wooden walkway, two feet from the hem of Alysanne's skirt. Myranda shoved at Theon, trying to duck out of his grip, but even brutal imprisonment hadn't robbed him of all his strength. He grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her over the railing separating the walkway from the one-storey fall to the courtyard. She screamed as she fell, long and loud, and the sound of it was cut off by a crunch as body hit stone.

Theon looked over the railing, his face blank and unreadable. Hesitantly, Alysanne touched his arm. She did not look down.

“Theon,” she said quietly. “Theon...” She couldn’t seem to remember any other words.

“I didn’t know what I was going to do,” he said quietly. “Whether I would join her or kill her, I mean.” He was still looking over the railing.

“It’s alright, Theon. It’s done now. We must go,” Alysanne said. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears, as if she were under water. “We’ve made a commotion. The guards at the gate will have heard."

She had hardly finished speaking when shouts rang up from below. Alysanne and Theon pulled away from the railing as two men - part of the small group left behind to guard the castle - ran towards the spot where Myranda had fallen. From across the yard, Alysanne could see Luwin coming out of the maester’s tower, yelling something to the guards. Their time was up.

Alysanne and Theon ran into the Great Keep and up the stairs. Alysanne’s heart was hammering and her head echoed with the sound of Myranda’s screams. Taking the key to Sansa’s room from its place behind a torch on the wall, Alysanne unlocked the door with shaking fingers. Sansa stood on the other side, face pinched and pale, but she looked relieved at the sight of them.

“What’s happened?” she asked. “Who screamed?”

“There’s no time to explain,” Alysanne said quickly, feeling ashamed. Myranda’s death was her fault, and if they were caught it would be her fault too. “We need to get to the East Gate.”

“We can’t,” said Sansa. “There are already guards there. I saw them on my walk this morning."

Alysanne could have wept, but she steeled herself. “Alright,” she said tightly. “Alright. Then we’ll jump.”

She expected them to ask her if she was mad, but they merely nodded. Perhaps they had been thinking the same thing. _Desperate minds think alike_ , she thought.

They turned back the way she and Theon had come, running through the armoury and the guards hall until they arrived at the broken doorway of the First Keep. Somewhere on the other side, Alysanne prayed with all her heart, their rescuers were waiting.

Ignoring the shouts drawing closer behind them, they raced into the tower and up a set of cracked stone steps covered in moss. Sansa slipped and Alysanne caught her by the hand. They continued upwards, still holding hands, legs and lungs burning. Theon was close behind them, and Alysanne reached for his hand too. He took it.

They emerged into the light at what must have been a window once and was now a large crumbling hole with a ledge wide enough to stand on. Alysanne, Sansa, and Theon stepped onto it and stood for a moment, side by side. The fall was long, but the snows were deep.

Boots thudded on the stone floors somewhere below them.

“We need to get to the woods,” Sansa said. She sounded frightened now. “As soon as you hit the ground, get to the woods. That’s where they’ll be if they’ve seen the candle.”

“Together,” Alysanne said. “We’ll jump together.”

Sansa and Theon nodded, faces tight.

Alysanne imagined them all falling, falling into the snow, their bodies making the same horrible thudding sound as Myranda's.

“Together,” Theon said, and it strengthened her.

They jumped.

*** 

The snow was in her mouth and nose and eyes. Her wrist was throbbing. Blinking fiercely and breathing heavily, Alysanne looked over to see Sansa and Theon emerging from the drifts, brushing snow from their cloaks. Immensely relieved, she reached out to touch them, reassuring herself that they were really there, that they really had escaped from within the walls.

“Are you both alright?” Sansa asked as she struggled to her feet, pulling her hood back up over her hair. It looked even redder than usual against the stark whiteness of the snow. On Alysanne’s other side, Theon was holding his ankle.

Shouts split the still air. Looking up, Alysanne saw three men on the battlements. As she watched, they disappeared.

“We need to go now,” she said. “They’ll be after us soon. Theon, can you stand?”

Theon grimaced, but nodded. Alysanne grabbed one of his hands with her uninjured one and Sansa took his other. Together, they heaved him to his feet. He put his weight on the ankle, testing it, and let out a sharp gasp of pain

“I’ll help you,” Alysanne said. “Here, put your weight on me. Sansa, which way do we go?”

“East,” Sansa said, pointing. They started off, Sansa leading the way and Alysanne doing her best to drag Theon along without hurting him. She looked back at the maester's tower and saw the candle still burning bright in the window.

Once they reached the cover of the trees, they stopped to rest a moment.

“How many people do you think will come after us?” Alysanne asked. Sansa shook her head.

“There aren’t many people left in the castle. Four, maybe? Five?”

“That’s too many,” Theon groaned. “When Ramsay gets back –”

“Lady Sansa?”

At the sound of the voice, Theon pushed himself to his feet with some difficulty. Sansa whirled about to face the voice’s owner and Alysanne, still kneeling, put her hand on her boot, where her dagger was stowed.

Two people stepped into view, a very tall woman and a smaller man. They both looked friendly, but Alysanne knew by now that appearances could be deceiving. Despite not being able to use the dagger to any great effectiveness, she kept her hand on her boot. She didn’t want to be rendered defenseless again.

“It’s alright,” the tall woman said. She had a patch of short golden hair atop her head and sincere blue eyes. “Lady Sansa, I am Brienne of Tarth and this is Podrick Payne, my squire. We’ve come to take you away from this place.” There was a short pause, then Brienne said, still addressing Sansa, “I made a vow to your mother to protect you.”

“You knew my mother?” Sansa asked. She sounded, suddenly, very young.

“Yes,” Brienne replied. “She was a good woman. Kind to me. And I swore to her before she… I promised her that I would protect you and your sister.”

“Arya is dead,” Sansa said quietly. 

Brienne looked like she didn’t know what to say to that. The young man, Podrick, stepped forward. “Ser. My lady,” he said nervously, apparently addressing Brienne. “Sorry, but we don’t have enough horses for all these people.” The lad was leading two horses, and Brienne a third. They hadn’t been expecting company.

“We can't leave them here,” Sansa said. “This is Alysanne Bolton, daughter of Roose.” At their shocked faces, she hastily added, “She hates them as much as I do. And this is Theon Greyjoy, eldest surviving son of Balon Greyjoy. I owe my escape to them."

“Take Theon with you, if you can. He can hardly walk,” Alysanne interjected. She looked behind herself fearfully. The longer they stood talking, the closer their pursuers would be. “That big destrier can seat two, I think. And it’s my fault we were nearly caught.” It hurt to admit to her own stupidity, but she had to. “Ramsay’s bedwarmer Myranda posed as my lady’s maid for weeks. She had suspicions about what we were doing. If she hadn't realized what was going on, we might have escaped without being noticed. Let me handle the consequences.”

Sansa looked stunned, then disgusted. “The kennel master’s daughter?” she said. “She is a vile, evil woman.”

“Was,” Theon said. “I took care of it. But it isn't your fault,” he said to Alysanne. “That's what they do. They trick people.”

Alysanne didn’t want to argue. They didn't have time. “Just take the horses and go. Please.”

Sansa hesitated briefly, then seemed to come to a decision. “No,” she said, grabbing Alysanne’s arm. “The horses will have to carry our weight. We’re not leaving you behind, not after everything. You’re not giving up now.” She turned and fixed Brienne with a stubborn look.

“Fine,” Brienne said, though she didn’t look happy about it. “Lady – Alysanne, was it? You sit with Pod here, and Lady Sansa will ride with Lord Theon. I will – ”

She was interrupted by the baying of hounds.

“Mount up!” Brienne shouted, drawing her sword. Podrick began to help Sansa onto the horse, and Alysanne helped Theon stand again and hobble forward.

It was too late.

They crashed through the trees, three men ahorse, all armed with longswords and one holding a torch. Podrick pushed Sansa behind him and drew his own sword, urging Alysanne and Theon towards him. Theon let out a low moan through gritted teeth as Alysanne dragged him forward. Then the three of them huddled together, half-hidden behind a horse and a tree, watching the battle that would decide their fate. Alysanne could feel Sansa trembling. Or was that her?

With impressive agility for such a tall woman, Brienne leapt onto a horse just in time to block a blow from one of the guards as his sword came whistling down towards her head. Pod scrambled up onto his own mount and slashed at a second guard.

Alysanne looked at Sansa’s right hand, clenched around the reins of their horse to hold it in place. The palfrey was snorting and sidestepping nervously, and Alysanne, Sansa, and Theon had to move back to avoid being stomped on.

Pod wasn’t a bad fighter, but he was clearly young and inexperienced. He was parrying more than attacking. Brienne, however, was good. Even Alysanne could tell that much, and she knew little and less about fighting. The blade of her sword rippled in the grey light. She was fighting two at once, but she did not look tired. Her movements looked graceful, like a dance, and the sound of steel on steel was a song.

But it was not a pretty song, and Alysanne’s stomach lurched when Brienne knocked one of the riders off his horse with a well-placed blow to the head. When he stood up, trying to thrust his sword through her horse’s belly, she knocked his blade aside. Then she slit his throat.

His blood soaked the snow, painting the ground red. Alysanne wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. The blood snaked its way across the ground like a scarlet river. She swallowed bile.

As fierce as Brienne was, the Bolton men were not as interested in her as they were in the three people she was fighting to protect. As his comrade lay dying beneath him, the other soldier who had been fighting Brienne leapt off his horse and charged Alysanne, Theon, and Sansa. He held the torch in his hand aloft. Brienne turned, leaping from her horse, but she wasn’t quick enough. Pod was desperately trying to fend off his own attacker. 

Thinking didn’t come into it. As the man came around the horse, sword in one hand and torch in the other, Alysanne already had her dagger in hand. She knew enough from the little training she had to understand that an open target was an inviting one, and the man had his hands spread wide. With a desperate shout that sounded more like a shriek than a battle cry, Alysanne pushed her dagger against his throat. He stilled. His soft skin gave under the blade. It was a horrible feeling. 

But she couldn't make herself push the dagger all the way in.

Then the man smiled. She was hesitating and he knew it. He brought his sword back, aimed at her belly. She looked into his eyes and thought that it was such a shame that this would be the last thing she would ever see.

Then his expression shifted from a predatory grin to one of confusion. He grunted softly and looked down at the blade protruding from his midsection.

He fell to the ground, his blood spreading and blooming. Alysanne was reminded, absurdly, of the handkerchief she had been sewing before they had left.

“Alysanne, your foot! _Your foot!_ ”

Alysanne looked down and saw that her left boot and the hem of her cloak were engulfed in flame.

The torch the man had been wielding lay on its side, guttered out. Sansa scooped up handfuls of snow and threw it on the fire, and Alysanne did the same. She was so distracted and horrified by all that had happened, her whole body tingling like a raw wound, that she hadn’t even felt the heat. She pushed her foot into the snow as Theon yanked her cloak off her back and stomped on it. The flames quickly died out.

Alysanne's boot was in tatters, charred and burnt, and the hem of her cloak was a blackened mess. Looking up, she saw that Brienne had gone to help Pod and, together, they had overcome the third assailant. He wasn’t dead yet, but pinned to the ground, pleading for his life.

Suddenly Alysanne felt that she couldn’t stand this for another moment. She had seen more death today than she had in her entire life. She needed to be out, away, back in Dorne, standing by the sea with the water on her feet and the sun on her skin. Distantly, she felt Sansa’s hand on her back and realized she had sunk down into the snow. It was cold and wet on her legs.

“Are you burnt?” Sansa asked. Her face was white. Alysanne reached out and took her hand, squeezing it tightly, desperate for some kind of human connection.

“No,” she said, looking at the bits of skin visible through her shoe. They had been just in time.

“We know they’ll come after us. Don’t lie to me,” Brienne was saying, her swordpoint hovering above the chest of the man on the ground. “But how long do we have before the Boltons know of Lady Sansa's escape?”

“I know not, m’lady, I know not! Gods be good, don’t kill me, I know nothin’!”

Brienne was unmoved. “Give me your best guess.”

“Depends on where they meet with Stannis’s army,” the man said. He sniffed wetly. “M’lady, I swear I –”

“Quiet. Two hours? Three?”

“Three, m’lady, three!”

“Thank you.” She moved her sword point to his neck.

“Stop!” Alysanne yelled. Brienne and Podrick looked at her, surprised.

“Wait,” she said desperately. “Wait. No more death. Please. Let him go.”

“That’s not possible, my lady,” Brienne said irritably. “Don’t worry, it’ll be quick. I suggest you look away if you don’t want to see it.”

“I didn’t want to serve Roose!” the man piped up from the ground. Brienne shot him a disgusted look. “They made me. They threatened my family.”

“You didn’t fight like a man acting against his will,” Podrick said, touching the ugly purple bruise forming over his eyebrow.

“Kill him or release him, what difference does it make to us?” Alysanne asked. “Take his weapons and send him back. What if he really was coerced?”

“I understand you want to be merciful, but –”

“Please.” Alysanne looked into Brienne’s eyes. They were a startlingly clear shade of blue, like the Summer Sea. “I’m not trying to be merciful. This might not even be just. It seems my judgment is usually flawed. But the snow is already red enough, and he can do us no more harm. We could..." She thought quickly. "We could send him with a message for the Boltons.” She gave Brienne a pointed look, hoping she would take her meaning.

Brienne paused, considering. Then, slowly, she reached down and removed the man’s dagger from its scabbard, tucking it into her own swordbelt. Then she took the scabbard and the man’s cloak and boots. Slowly, she removed her swordpoint from his throat.

He pushed himself to his feet, hands raised, looking small and frightened in his stockinged feet and with no cloak about his shoulders.

“You owe a life debt to Lady Alysanne,” Brienne told him. “If you wish to pay back even a fraction of it, you will return to the castle and tell your masters that we went northwest.” They were, of course, going east and south respectively.

The man nodded quickly, lowering a hand to wipe his running nose. “Thank you, m’lady,” he said to Alysanne, bowing. “I am most grateful for what you done for me. I won’t forget it.”

Wanting to believe him, Alysanne nodded once without changing expression. Her mind was still alive with the image of blood spreading across the snow .

When the man had hobbled off across the field toward Winterfell, the bedraggled party began corralling the horses. Alysanne collected her dagger from the snow and tucked it into her still-intact right boot. Brienne drew Alysanne aside as they were preparing to part ways.

“That was a good thing you did, my lady, but may I advise you?” Brienne asked. She had a kind way about her for such a fearsome warrior, and Alysanne nodded.

Brienne sighed. “I was more like you, once. Tenderhearted, gentle. When I was young and learning to fight, my master at arms told me that if I hoped to survive in battle, I must harden myself against my... natural inclinations.”

“I am not a fighter,” Alysanne said quickly. “You saw as much. He would have killed us if you hadn’t stopped him. We owe you our lives.”

“Fighter or not, you’re in danger now,” Brienne said. “And sometimes that means making difficult choices to protect yourself. Choices that hurt, but are the best choices in the end. Do you take my meaning?”

Alysanne nodded again. Brienne patted her on the shoulder and turned away.

*** 

Alysanne’s little palfrey stepped carefully through the snow on the way to freedom.

She had taken the smallest horse, a light brown mare she had taken to calling Plum over the past week of their journey together.

She had been too wary to stay in inns and she needed to save her gold for the ships, so she and Plum had been sleeping under the stars in wooded areas off the Kingsroad. It was cold and lonely, and she found little joy in it. She thought often of her mother and Arianne, and of Daenerys Targaryen. Could the things she was heading towards possibly be worse than what she was leaving behind?

She doubted it. It would be warm in Meereen, at least. If she had to sleep outside, she could do it without having to lie beside a blazing fire, always fearing detection. Maybe she could sit by the sea as she had when she was a child, with a bowl of grapes in her hands.

As she so often did, she thought of Sansa and Theon. Their goodbyes had been surprisingly painful, for having known one another for so little time. Theon had not said a great deal, but he had picked up the sword of one of the dead men, testing the weight in his hand.

Sansa, however, looked brighter and happier than Alysanne had ever seen her. She looked as though she were lighter than air, as though the ropes tying her to the ground had been cut and she could at last float free. She had hugged Alysanne and allowed Podrick Payne to help her onto her horse.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Sansa had said.

“And I know you will find what has been lost to you,” Alysanne had replied.

In truth, she knew little and understood less. She pulled out Ashara Dayne’s yellowed letter from twenty years ago and looked at it as she rode along. She couldn’t make out the letters in the dark, but it didn’t matter. She knew the words so well that she had only to close her eyes to read them. And as she looked at the letter, she was asking, for once, only one question: would her mother have been proud of her?

Plum crested a hill and, below them, White Harbour appeared. The night fires glittered, orange and yellow, in the dark, lighting up a hundred ships at port. The sea was dark and deep behind them, disappearing into the inky black distance.

She knew one thing, at least, about what lay beyond that distance in Meereen: Daenerys Targaryen was queen.

Brienne had spoken of difficult choices, choices that hurt us. But when Alysanne made her choice at the top of that hill, all she felt was relief.

Alysanne tucked the letter back into her pocket and urged Plum down towards the city. She would set sail in the morning.

*** 

“Your Grace, I know you don’t want to speak of it, but you must admit it would solve most of our problems.”

Dany looked at the candle in front of her instead of at Ben Plumm. The night was cool and dark, and the candle warmed the air. She wanted to reach out and touch it, run her fingers through the flame, but she restrained herself.

“Ben, if you could present to me someone trustworthy and committed to my cause, I would marry him here, this very night.”

“Hizdahr zo Loraq –”

“Do not speak to me of Hizdahr. He seeks to further his own agenda, not mine.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace would struggle to find someone who doesn't seek their own ends above all else.”

 _Yourself included_ , Dany thought. “That is true,” she allowed. “Some more than others. I cannot marry for love, I know it well. I did that once and I will never have the chance again. But I will not marry someone I don't trust.”

“Your Grace is wise,” said Ser Barristan, seated at her right hand. “One whisper of dishonesty is one whisper too many."

“This one does not trust Hizdahr either,” Grey Worm said. “His eyes never rest.”

Dany agreed. Hizdahr’s eyes were constantly shifting, roving around every room he entered as if tallying up the value of its contents. Including Dany herself.

“Your Grace, no one is saying that he should be trusted with your life," Ben persisted. “Marry him and lock him in the dungeons if you must. Bring him out and parade him before the locals on occasion to keep them happy. Because if we don’t do something to keep the peace, the ensuing war, both within our walls and without, will eat us alive."

“Us? Are you certain?” Ser Barristan snapped. “Does that include you or will you go running over to the Yunkai’i when all is lost?”

“Enough,” Dany said, though Ser Barristan had a point. Ben would take his mercenaries to whichever side he thought most likely to win. He was as opportunistic as Hizdahr, she supposed. Marrying her would give Hizdahr everything he wanted: wealth, power, and influence. And in exchange, as she was told, her reign would be secure. The Yunkai'i and the Sons of the Harpy would be happy enough to have a King of Meereen descended from the old blood of Ghis that they would stop hounding her and her subjects.

But must they marry to achieve that result? If he merely showed himself to be her ally, it might be enough to solidify her hold on Meereen.

“I will meet with Hizdahr,” she decided. “We'll find another way to appease him. There must be something he wants besides my hand.”

This seemed to satisfy Ser Barristan and Grey Worm, but Ben still looked unhappy. Dany looked at the candle again and watched the flames dance.

It always came back to fire. Fire and Blood. 

_The dragon has three heads._

Something told her Hizdahr had no place in that prophecy.

> “In the stormy east-wind straining,  
>  The pale yellow woods were waning,  
>  The broad stream in his banks complaining,  
>  Heavily the low sky raining  
>  Over tower’d Camelot;  
>  Down she came and found a boat  
>  Beneath a willow left afloat,  
>  And around about the prow she wrote  
>  The Lady of Shalott.”  
> 

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson, _The Lady of Shalott_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple details:
> 
> -Luwin probably didn't work for the Targaryens at any point, but the idea was very appealing to me. He's been a surprisingly great muse.  
> -The layout of the castle in this story is almost entirely based on the books, but as in the show, there's no moat. Since there were no Free Folk to help them as in ADWD, I just didn't see how having a moat would work. Plus the Myranda idea was just irresistible.
> 
> Also, I got super into flower symbolism while writing this story, and the black dahlia - which Mara/Myranda was sewing onto her handkerchief at the beginning of the chapter - is a symbol of betrayal.
> 
> Next chapter is the big meeting we've all been waiting for! Stay tuned.


	6. Beams of Gold

Alysanne had seen all manner of strange and wonderful things on the passage from White Harbour to Meereen.

Some she had recognized from her childhood, from visitors to Prince Doran's court: purple mustaches, hair braided and twisted into all manner of shapes, gowns that bared the breasts of the women who wore them. Others were stranger still. When she had switched ships for the second time in Volantis, she had seen people with jewels pierced through their eyelids and, at market stalls, gems that pulsated and glittered. She had been drawn to one, a deep purple stone that seemed to glow and dim to the beat of her own heart. She had nearly touched it before coming back to herself and turning away. 

Yet it all felt more familiar to her than the North ever had. The air was warm and the breeze cool. When she breathed in, the salty smell of the ocean seemed to welcome her home.

When she got off the ship in Meereen, however, she was greeted with something entirely new.

The woman had taken hold of her arm as soon as she had disembarked and was now holding her hand. She was very beautiful, with high cheekbones and a soft, smiling mouth. The emeralds at her throat matched her lively eyes.

“Only three honours, my lady, for my services,” the woman was saying in an accent Alysanne didn’t recognize.

“Honours?” Alysanne asked dumbly, trying to extricate her hand.

“Coins, sweetling,” said the woman. “It’s a fair bargain. You’re from Westeros, yes? Your garb is unusual.” She gestured to Alysanne’s long, dark blue dress. She had taken off her burnt cloak before boarding in White Harbour and had been using it as a sack ever since. It was wrapped around her trunk, which held her money and ring. Her dagger was tucked, as ever, in her boot. She had sold Plum in White Harbour and had used the money to buy three new gowns and new boots in Braavos, and the dress she was wearing now was lighter and cooler than the heavy woolen attire she had worn in the North. Yet its long sleeves and wide skirt made her look like a septa compared to the Meereenese women. 

“I know most of you Westerosi women think you favour a carrot to a sweet ripe cherry,” the woman was saying, “but perhaps I could change your mind.”

 _I never needed anyone to convince me of the sweetness of a cherry_ , Alysanne thought, but aloud she said only, “No, thank you. Though perhaps you could tell me where I might find a new gown.” 

The woman sighed and finally let go of Alysanne’s hand. “Information will cost you as well,” she said. Alysanne was reluctant to part with any more gold, but she didn’t have time to wander about the marketplace looking for stalls if she hoped to reach the Great Pyramid before nightfall. She reached into the dwindling supply of gold in her pouch and brought out a gold dragon. The woman took it, eyed it with satisfaction, and pointed somewhere to her left. “You should seek Grezna’s stall in the seaside marketplace,” she said. “She will try to upsell you, but she will not cheat you when she hears your accent.” The woman walked away, back towards the ship and its passengers, before Alysanne could ask her anything else. 

Grezna turned out to be a small, dark-haired woman with sharp black eyes and a sharper tongue. The stall was a plethora of silks, laces, and semi-sheer woven fabrics in powdery blues and pale purples and whites. 

“What you want?” she asked in an accent so thick Alysanne had to strain to understand her. The din of the marketplace made it more difficult. The sun was high overhead, the air hot and close. Alysanne was eager for a gown that would allow her skin to breathe.

“Two of your cheapest gowns, please,” she half-shouted, planting her feet to avoid being pushed aside by other eager shoppers. 

But Grezna shook her head emphatically. “Purple gown to match eyes,” Grezna said, scooping up a soft lilac gown from the table and brandishing it at her. “Not too expensive. You from Westeros. Have gold dragons? Just five.”

 _Five dragons?_ Alysanne looked at Grezna askance, but she did not have the energy to argue. She knew haggling was common in marketplaces, but she had no experience. She did not want to anger the woman, either. The woman at the ships had said Grezna would give her a fair deal, and she had to trust that that was true. 

“Very well - the purple. Do you have anything else for under three dragons?”

Grezna huffed and raised her eyes to the heavens as if Alysanne was remarkably unreasonable, dug through a pile of gowns, and shoved what looked like a white shift into Alysanne's arms along with the purple dress. Alysanne smiled, said her thanks, and handed over the coins. Grezna counted them and waved her on her way. 

Now she had to find some place to dress before starting for the Great Pyramid. She could see it in the distance, not too far from the port, its peak rising high against the brilliant blue of the sky. It seemed as unreal as a mirage. She knew from the few conversations she had had on board the ships that a harpy had sat atop the Great Pyramid before the dragon queen had toppled it, along with the system it stood for. 

Now that she was here, with the pyramid before her, the doubts that she had determinedly pushed away on the passage were returning in full force. Her stomach twisted with nerves. Had she truly done this? Had she sailed away from her home, from everything she had ever known, to cast the dice on the generosity of a woman she had never even met? 

_Not just any woman_ , she reminded herself. _The dragon queen. A Targaryen. Her very existence has reshaped the course of my life. And, if she has any hope of taking back the Iron Throne, she will want allies from Westeros._

In any case, the alternative was unthinkable. Arianne was gone and Doran had lied to her, gods knew for what purpose. She had been lost and adrift in the North. Staying within the walls of Winterfell would have slowly leeched her spirit from her until she was a husk. What use could she have been to anyone, sitting in the castle sept and sewing? 

Not to mention the most important thing: Sansa had escaped. If all went as it should, the North would rally around her and she would take back Winterfell.

After ten minutes of wandering through narrow, twisting alleyways and ducking between buildings, Alysanne found a reasonably well-concealed lane and slipped into it. She pulled her dagger out of her boot and held it between her teeth as she discarded her old dress and donned the new. She may have been too naive for her own good, but she wasn't fool enough to think that she was safe, half-naked and half-concealed as she was.

The dress fit well and was blessedly cool, and though she had no mirror she had to hope that it looked well on her. She pictured herself standing before the dragon queen and was suddenly pleased that Grezna had strong-armed her into accepting the more elaborate gown. She was feeling tired from her weeks at sea, and was sure her face must be pale and shadowed. Perhaps the dress would detract from the sight.

She slipped her dagger back into her boot, tucked the white dress into her sack, and left the alleyway after placing her old gowns atop a pile of discarded bricks. Perhaps someone would find them and get some use out of them. 

Alysanne had just joined the throng of people heading in the direction of the Great Pyramid when the shadow passed over her face.

Some people looked up and a few stopped and shouted, but others kept walking, looking unperturbed. Alysanne stopped still and someone ran into her from behind. He said something undoubtedly rude in his tongue as he pushed past her, but Alysanne hardly noticed.

Above her, stark and black against the blue sky, was a dragon. 

She blinked several times, each time expecting to open her eyes and be met with an endless expanse of blue, the black shadow gone. But he was there, flying overhead, powerful wings beating the air. He circled overhead, his brilliant red eyes like fire. 

He made a graceful arc and turned about, soaring back the way he had come. She stood in the middle of the street and watched until he was a black speck on the horizon, ignoring the shoving and shouting of several irate Meereenese citizens. Then she watched until the black speck disappeared.

When she turned back towards the pyramid, her cheeks were wet, but she was smiling.

***

The line of petitioners waiting for an audience with the queen was long, and Alysanne was worried that she would not be seen until the next day. But when the person ahead of her was summoned through by one of the queen’s fearsome-looking Unsullied guards, Alysanne started to feel unsure of whether she would rather have an audience with the queen or take her chances in the streets for the night. What if she made a dreadful fool of herself? What if the queen didn't believe her story? Or maybe she was a tyrant as Roose had said and supporting her was a grave mistake.

Then it was her turn and there was no more time for doubts.

She had expected it to happen more slowly, more ceremoniously, but it seemed to unfold in the space of a blink. An Unsullied guard stepped forward and gestured to her, and she walked forward, feet as heavy as stone. Her face was clear and calm, but her body was a tingling bundle of nerves. When she smiled hesitantly at the soldier leading her through the enormous double doors into the queen’s presence chamber, he looked back at her, stone-faced. Alysanne had been told by the person behind her in line (one of the few who spoke the Common Tongue) that the Unsullied had been slaves until Daenerys had freed them, and they were fiercely loyal to her.

The towering double doors opened and Alysanne stepped through.

The audience hall was a cavernous stone room with steps leading up to a platform, and on the platform, seated on a simple wooden bench amidst silk cushions, was Daenerys Targaryen. 

She was too far away for Alysanne to make her out clearly, but she could see silver-gold hair and violet eyes, darker and more vibrant than Alysanne’s own. 

She didn’t appear to be a tall woman, and her throne was but a bench, but her presence dominated the room. Any doubts that had existed in Alysanne’s mind had vanished at the sight of the dragon flying over Meereen, but here her hopes were affirmed. Here sat the last true Targaryen, in the flesh. 

A small girl of perhaps ten stepped forward and in a high, clear voice, she called out: “Hail Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the Unburnt, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles and Mother of Dragons. You may speak.”

The queen looked at Alysanne expectantly, violet eyes trained steadily on her. Alysanne had the sudden urge to say, _I saw a dragon. It was beautiful._ She swallowed the words.

She had rehearsed this speech half a hundred times on the passage here and had turned it over in her mind many times today, like a well-loved song. 

Alysanne looked up and met the queen’s gaze. She opened her mouth and spoke.

***

Dany looked at the woman in front of her with keen interest.

She was young, perhaps Dany’s own age, and she wore a silken lilac gown overlaid with gossamer. Her hair was long, thick, and black, and she had a sweet - if wan-looking - face. But that was not what interested Dany.

It was the woman's eyes that drew her attention.

Of course, she had seen many people with purple eyes. They were not uncommon in the Free Cities, even amongst the common people, for the blood of Old Valyria ran strong in many regions of Essos. But this woman’s hair was black. Most people of Valyrian ancestry were light of hair.

“It is an honour to stand in your presence, Your Grace,” the woman said. She looked calm and her voice was steady, but Dany could not help but notice that she was clutching an ugly black sack of cloth to her chest as if she were afraid someone was going to wrest it from her. 

“I come before you,” the woman continued, “as Lady Alysanne Bolton, only daughter and legitimate child of Roose Bolton and of Ashara Dayne of Starfall. I wish to pledge my fealty, if Your Grace would have me. I have no ties to Lord Bolton, but I am in good standing with my Dayne relations, and they are a powerful house. I was raised in the house of Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne, and was taught the art of diplomacy at his knee. I have no armies or swords, but I can offer Your Grace information in spades, loyalty, and counsel, for whatever it is worth.”

This was, to say the least, unexpected. Dany raised her eyebrows and noticed Ser Barristan stir beside her. Alysanne – or so she claimed – stood as still as a statue at the base of the steps, her eyes trained on Dany and Dany alone.

Dany chose her next words carefully. “I would welcome the leal service of Alysanne Bolton. But what proof do you have to offer me of your identity? Or of your good intentions?” She wanted to ask her about her eyes, but she held back the question for the time being.

The woman hesitated. “May I show something to Your Grace?” she asked.

Dany turned to Ser Barristan, who stood at her right, with a raised eyebrow. He narrowed his eyes at the woman, considering.

“She may well be who she says she is, Your Grace. Her eyes… Ashara Dayne had purple eyes. So do many of the Daynes."

"The Daynes claim Valyrian ancestry?" Oddly, Dany felt something stir inside her at the thought.

"No, Your Grace.”

That was disappointing, somehow. “Did you know this Ashara Dayne?”

“Aye, from the time she was a girl. She was a merry woman, and beautiful. She died shortly after her babe was born. Alysanne, the girl was called.” 

Dany was decided. “Show us,” she said to Alysanne. 

Slowly, her eyes still trained on Dany, the woman reached into her bag and pulled out a tiny object. Dany squinted. It looked like a ring, winking purple in the light streaming through the high windows.

“Ashara Dayne’s ring,” Alysanne said. “Passed down from her mother to her, and from her to me.”

“Approach so we might see it more clearly,” Dany said. The woman looked surprised, but did as she was bid, climbing the steps not hesitantly, but carefully, her feet tapping softly on the stone. It seemed to echo in the total silence of the room.

Eventually she stood two steps below the throne. Up close, Dany could see how pale she was. If she truly was Alysanne Bolton, she would have had a long journey here.

Dany moved her eyes from the woman’s face and inspected the ring. A deep, vivid purple stone was set in a glittering silver band. It seemed to ripple before Dany’s eyes, like the surface of the sea.

“In Westeros, it is called the ocean’s amethyst,” Alysanne said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried. Her eyes met Dany’s, and the two held each other’s gaze. “I am the only legitimate keeper of this jewel, Your Grace. A book or a reliable Westerosi source would tell you as much. This ring is well known in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“As it happens, a reliable Westerosi source stands before you,” Ser Barristan said. Alysanne turned and gazed at him, looking astonished. Ignoring this, Barristan said, “I have seen this ring before, and it is unmistakeable. There are few cuts like it in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Alysanne looked like she desperately wanted to ask who Ser Barristan was, but she turned to Dany instead, looking hopeful.

“Very well. If I accept that you are the Lady Alysanne, then I must ask why you have come. And how did you get here? It is a long journey for a young woman on her own, seeking service with a distant queen she has never met.” Dany allowed herself a small smile. If this woman was telling them true, Dany admired her tenacity. 

“It was, Your Grace,” the woman said. “I put a lot of faith in this journey, perhaps more than was wise. But as I said, I was raised by Prince Doran at Sunspear, and when I returned to the North for the first time in twenty years, it wasn’t... what I had expected. My brother and father supported the false king Stannis Baratheon, and I could not sit by and watch as they brutalized their subjects and fought a war with no just end. And when I heard of your dragons and of your deeds in Essos, it was... it was as if a new path had opened up before me. I sought a cause to believe in, and I found one. And so I stand before you. As for how I got here, it involved three ships and some coin. But the tale is far longer than that.”

It was an impressive speech, and the words were pretty, but Dany wasn’t one to be drawn in by flattery. The fly that dove eagerly into the honeypot would be trapped there. It was, again, the woman’s eyes that swayed Dany in her favour. When she had spoken of the dragons, they had lit up with a fierce intensity. Dany recognized the look, but it was distinct from the hunger she so often saw on the faces of diplomats and other visitors when they saw her dragons. The light in Alysanne's eyes was different. It was what Dany felt as she watched Drogon spread his jet-black wings, or Rhaegal unleash a storm of golden-green flame, or heard Viserion's mighty roar.

It was awe.

“I saw one of the dragons flying over the city,” Alysanne said. She sounded, for the first time, uncertain, as if she was unsure of whether she should be speaking. “Watching a dragon in flight is… well, describing it would be an injustice.”

The raw emotion in Alysanne’s voice was distracting, and it took a moment for Dany to grasp the full meaning of her words. Drogon had not been sighted in well over a fortnight. The news of his return brought some gladness to her heart, though she could not help but feel trepidation. Should he harm any of the citizens…

But it would not do to reveal too much to Alysanne at this juncture. Clearly, she knew nothing of Dany's struggles with her children.

“Very well,” Dany said. “You may pledge me your service. But any whisper of treachery and you will wish you had never set foot in Meereen.”

“My heart is loyal, Your Grace,” Alysanne said. Then she went to her knees. “Though I have no sword to lay before Your Grace, nor arms to take up to defend you,” she said, “I swear to serve you in all the ways I am able, to the best of my ability, until the end of my days.” Her voice was growing slightly thick, and she swallowed. It was rare to see such a display of emotion in open court, and it was both touching and refreshing. “I swear to always honour you as my queen.”

“Then rise, Lady Alysanne of the House Bolton, as a member of the queen’s council,” Dany said. Alysanne stood, smoothing her purple gown.

“A fine pledge,” Dany said, and she meant it. “Did you come up with it just now?”

Alysanne smiled for the first time, a small thing that made her face look sweeter and softer. “I did have a great deal of time on my hands on the ships,” she said. “I thought I had best come prepared.” 

Dany laughed softly, then gestured to one of her Unsullied captains. “Sure Spear,” Dany called to him, “please escort Lady Alysanne to a room at the edge of the Heart.” The Heart was a large, interconnecting maze of rooms on the middle floors of the pyramid. Most of the queen’s household occupied the interior rooms, but Dany thought a noblewoman such as Alysanne would appreciate a balcony. To the woman in question, Dany said, “I will summon you later. We have much to discuss.”

Alysanne agreed and, with a graceful curtsey, she was led away by Sure Spear.

“My queen, might this one speak freely?” asked Grey Worm after the great doors had closed.

“Of course,” Dany replied.

“Is my queen certain that trusting this purple woman is wise? How does a small girl come all the way from the cold lands in the west to Slaver’s Bay, alone with no guard?”

“I might remind you that I, a small girl of sixteen, led my own people across the Red Waste, with no outside help and little direction.” But there was no heat in her voice. She had to acknowledge the wisdom of Grey Worm’s words. “I will question her on all those matters tonight,” Dany said, looking at the door through which Alysanne had disappeared. “If her answers do not prove satisfactory, I will not retain her. But Ser Barristan, you believe her?”

Barristan hesitated. “I am an old man, Your Grace,” he said. “I have seen many false faces, and though my eyes are not what they once were I should hope I could still spot one. And she seems true enough. But I would counsel you to be wary of the Boltons. Her father is treacherous as an eel, and her half-brother… there are stories about him.”

“Stories?”

“He is a bastard born of rape, begging Your Grace’s pardon. He is mad, they say, and evil besides. Though perhaps she is more Dayne than Bolton. I am inclined to think so.”

“I will ask her. Thank you, Ser Barristan.” She paused, thinking. “I do like her,” she admitted. “She certainly has spirit, and as long as she stays loyal, she'll be of use.”

“Let us hope so, Your Grace.”

> “Lo, the clouds break, and in each opened schism  
>  The coming Phoebus lays huge beams of gold,  
>  And roseate fire and glories that the prism  
>  Would vainly strive before us to unfold;  
>  And, while I gaze, from out the bright abysm  
>  A flaming disc is to the horizon rolled.”

  
-Charles Heavysege, _The Coming of Morn_


	7. Gossamer Thread

“The queen requests your presence in her apartments.”

These were the words Alysanne had been awaiting all evening, but hearing them still made her heart stutter. Her meeting with Daenerys in the throne room had been taxing, and when Sure Spear had left her at her door she had collapsed on the bed without bothering to look around or take off her boots. Being in the queen’s presence had made her feel very awake, but now she felt as though she could sleep for a hundred years.

But beneath the bone-deep exhaustion was a layer of warmth. She was here. In the Great Pyramid of Meereen, dragons overhead, having sworn herself into the service of a Targaryen queen. She almost feared to sleep, lest she should open her eyes and be back in the darkness and loneliness of Winterfell.

The queen had seemed a good woman, from what Alysanne had seen of her, and a fair ruler. She certainly did not seem mad. But Daenerys Targaryen did have a powerful presence, a strength that had nothing to do with her being queen. There was an undeniable attraction about her, a pull that felt at once mesmerizing and dangerous.

Alysanne’s room was high-ceilinged and airy, and the wide windows had no curtains or shutters. In the day the room would be awash in sunlight, but now moonlight filled the room with a silvery glow, so bright Alysanne lit no candles.

In the center of the room against the far wall was a four-poster bed with sheets of thin white cotton, and by the window sat a writing desk of shiny rosewood. There were no rushes on the floor, but it was clean and the fresh air smelled delightful, carrying with it a hint of the sea.

Alysanne had stood at the window for what could have been five minutes or two hours, turning her encounter with the dragon queen over and over in her head. She thought she had pleased her, but Daenerys Targaryen was difficult to read. The queen’s Unsullied guard didn’t trust her, that much was clear. And who was that Westerosi man? He carried himself like a knight and had vouched for her, but Alysanne had never met him as far as she could recall.

And the queen had seemed surprised to hear that her dragon had been flying over the city, which struck Alysanne as odd. She was burning with questions, but she wasn’t yet sure whether she dared voice them. She was not yet a trusted confidant, and if Daenerys was not satisfied with her when they met tonight, she would never become one.

The woman who had come to summon her to the queen stood at the door, eying her with an air of suspicion. She had long, thick black hair that fell in waves over her shoulders and intelligent, clear brown eyes. She had brought Alysanne some essential items earlier, seemingly at someone else’s behest, and had barely spoken to her despite Alysanne’s attempts at conversation, nor had she introduced herself. Now, as they walked along an intricate pathway towards the queen’s apartments, she was silent.

“May I know your name?” Alysanne asked.

“I am called Irri.”

“And how long have you served the queen?”

Irri shot her a withering look. “I have served the khaleesi since she wed Khal Drogo in the green lands of the Great Grass Sea. I followed her when she led the Dothraki across the red waste and into the ghostly town of Vaes Tolorro. I fed her dragons when they were babies and freed them from their chains to rain fire on the slaveholders of Astapor.”

Alysanne was glad that Irri was finally speaking, but she understood very little of what she was saying. Who was this Khal Drogo? And what was Vaes Tolorro? She knew that Astapor was in Slaver's Bay, but what did she mean about freeing dragons from their chains? She wanted to ask these questions, but for fear of offending Irri, she said only, “You must be very dear to her.”

“And she to me. She is the first khaleesi without a khal. But she was reborn from the ashes, bathed in fire and touched by the gods. She is not a woman of this world. This is known.” There was a note of pride in her voice.

“Indeed,” said Alysanne, though she still had hardly an inkling of what Irri was talking about. “She is the blood of the dragon.”

“Yes, but you Westerosi do not know or understand the power and magic of the great gods. Your Seven are weak shadows of the true spirits that wield power in the sky and the earth. When our khaleesi bathed in fire, she harnessed the light of the sun and birthed dragons, creatures of the sky. They are the children of the sun god. It is known.”

Alysanne knew this story, for she had heard it on the ships. Daenerys had entered a blazing inferno with her dragon eggs and, when the fires had died, she had emerged unburnt with three baby dragons on her shoulders. It would have been almost too fantastic to believe, were it not for the evidence all around her.

They began to climb yet another steep set of stone stairs, walking past potted plants bursting with lush green leaves and tall flowers. The climb left Alysanne a little breathless, but Irri was moving gracefully upwards as if she were floating on air. “Do your people - the Dothraki, I mean - do you worship the sun?” Alysanne asked her, trying not to sound as if she were panting.

“The Dothraki worship many things. It is not for you to question them.”

“I’m not questioning, I’m only asking.”

“Is there a difference? To ask is to question, and to question is to ask. This is known.”

Alysanne couldn’t help but smile. She liked Irri, though clearly the feeling wasn’t mutual. “I hope I can earn your respect over time,” she said. “This is all very new to me. Any friendship would be welcome.”

“You had no friends back in Westeros?” The question was harsh, but Irri didn’t say it meanly. Still, Alysanne winced.

“Some friends, some enemies,” she said frankly. “As we all have.”

“I have had no friends or enemies. Only my _khalasar_. Blood of my blood.”

“Yes, well. They do things differently in Westeros. Sometimes even your blood, your own family, can be your enemies.”

“I have heard that the Westerosi way is to butcher your kin,” Irri said. “The Dothraki do no such thing. The family is a sacred union from the gods.”

“Westerosi rarely kill their kin,” Alysanne said as they continued to climb. “Those who do become social outcasts. They say that no man is as accursed as the kinslayer.”

“This is known,” Irri agreed. “But then how would one explain the many wars that now plague your kingdom and have for centuries? We have heard of them from our khaleesi. Brother against brother, father against daughter. And there are more ways of bringing about a man’s death than putting a knife in his back.”

With this, Alysanne couldn’t argue, but she felt compelled to say one more thing on the matter. “Family is deeply important to many people in Westeros,” she said. “Some would do anything to be among their kin, to stand beside them and follow them. Even just to know them. To belong.” She went quiet, worrying she was saying too much. But Irri looked somewhat approving.

“Then those people are wise,” Irri said. “For one without family is no one at all.”

Alysanne didn’t want to agree, for then who was she? But as they reached the top of the stairs and looked upon the entrance to Daenerys Targaryen’s apartments, she said, almost to herself, “It is known.”

Irri looked at her sharply, as if thinking she was being mocked, but whatever she saw in Alysanne’s eyes softened her gaze. Then she walked forward and Alysanne hastened after her.

The queen’s apartments were a series of high-ceilinged, interconnecting rooms separated by intricately carved wooden doors and high stone archways. They passed several large pools, some steaming and others sparkling in the moonlight spilling through the high windows. Eventually, Irri stopped before an archway and gestured to Alysanne to go through it ahead of her. It was a long room and it appeared to be a council chamber, judging by the large stone table in the center.

But Alysanne was far less interested in the table than the woman seated at the head of it. Her hair was bathed in moonlight, making it look like polished silver. She was writing something by the light of a candle, but looked up when Alysanne entered.

“Here she is, khaleesi,” Irri said, and left Alysanne alone with the queen.

Suddenly feeling very unsure of herself, Alysanne took a step forward, then aborted it quickly, unsure of whether she was permitted to approach. Fortunately, the queen did not let her linger.

“Come and sit,” said Daenerys. “Excuse the lateness of the hour. How are you feeling?”

“Well rested, Your Grace,” Alysanne said. “And grateful. Thank you for my rooms. They are more comfortable than I even hoped for.”

“More comfortable than ships quarters, I would imagine.” The queen was smiling. Alysanne laughed.

“More than I can say, Your Grace.” She took the seat two down from Daenerys, but the queen shook her head.

“Sit by my side, if you please.”

Alysanne obliged, sitting at the queen’s right hand. It felt odd, and being so close to Daenerys felt stranger still. The air felt warmer next to her.

“You’re the second person to come to me from across the narrow sea, and such an ally is always welcome,” Dany said, fixing Alysanne with her direct gaze. It made Alysanne feel pinned to the spot, but she didn’t wish to move. “But I would be a fool of a queen if I welcomed every friendly face without due diligence.”

“I’ll do my best to prove my worth to you, Your Grace.”

Daenerys smiled, leaning back in her chair a little, hands resting on the table in front of her. “I hope you will. Ser Barristan seems to have faith in you, at least.”

The name rang a bell. “Ser Barristan Selmy? Barristan the Bold?” Alysanne asked, then quickly shut her mouth, worried the queen would be angry with her for speaking out of turn. She had had a great deal of practice holding her tongue during her weeks at Winterfell, and the habit would no doubt be difficult to break.

But Daenerys looked unperturbed. “You know of him, then? He has served me well. But tell me, before we discuss anything else: why did you come? There is more to your story than the bits and pieces you fed us in the audience hall.”

How could she possibly know that? Was Alysanne so transparent? “I came because I believe in you, in your cause and values. I felt I could be more of service here than hiding behind the walls of Winterfell, waiting for… something. Anything.”

“But there is more. Isn’t there? Barristan mentioned your father and brother. He did not have favourable things to say.”

Alysanne looked down, suddenly unable to meet the queen’s eyes. She wished she had sleeves to play with, something to keep her hands busy. Instead, she rubbed the skirt of her gown between her thumb and forefinger. Visions of herself lying prone on a stone floor, blood on her cheek, forced their way into her mind, uninvited and unwelcome.

“I wouldn’t have favourable things to say either,” she replied. She didn’t trouble to dissemble. What good would it do? She could only pray that Daenerys understood that the savagery of the Boltons was something she wanted to stop, not support. “Your Grace is right. That is one of the reasons why I left. I couldn’t bear to be a bystander, or a pawn, any longer.”

“I see,” Daenerys said. Alysanne forced herself to look up and saw, to her surprise, that Daenerys’s violet eyes were filled with compassion. “I understand, Alysanne, more than you would realize.” The sound of her name, spoken so familiarly by the queen, made Alysanne’s chest feel warm, as if she had taken a gulp of wine. “Before I was reborn from the flames, before the dragons, I too was a pawn to my brother’s ambitions. He gave me to Khal Drogo in exchange for a promise from the Dothraki to help him take back the Seven Kingdoms. Even before that, he was very controlling. I remember that fear well. But I think it has made me a better queen. A ruler who has not known fear, or pain, or even bondage, cannot truly understand her subjects, or govern them fairly.”

Alysanne tried to speak, but there seemed to be something stuck in her throat. She swallowed and found her voice. “I am so sorry that happened to you, Your Grace.”

Dany shook her head. “It was not so bad, in the end. My husband was kind, and through him I achieved power such as I had never known before: the power to protect my subjects as I was never protected myself.”

Alysanne had the sudden urge to tell her everything, every secret she had kept to herself these past years. Would it be so very wrong? Would Daenerys welcome her, knowing all? Or would she cast her aside?

Alysanne was paralyzed with indecision. But then the queen was speaking again, and the moment was gone.

“And this has nothing to do with your claim on the Bolton seat?” Daenerys said. “You do not seek my help in defeating your bastard half-brother? Or justice for the wrongs they have done you?”

Alysanne shook her head. She couldn't have been less interested in those things. “No, Your Grace. Now that Sansa Stark - the rightful heir to Winterfell - has escaped their grasp, I hope that she will reclaim her seat and serve justice herself.”

“I see. But you do not wish for vengeance?”

“I don’t see the purpose, Your Grace.”

Daenerys tilted her head. “You have a gentle nature, don’t you?”

Alysanne wasn’t sure what the right answer was, or indeed if there was a right answer at all. “I suppose so, Your Grace. But I’m under no delusions. I know what kind of world we live in.” _Now more than ever._

Daenerys gave her an inscrutable look. Her eyes were shining pools of indigo in the low light of the candles. “And how did you manage to escape the North and cross the narrow sea on your own?”

“Not exactly on my own, Your Grace. And it is a long tale.”

“So you said. We have all night.”

So Alysanne told her everything she safely could about Winterfell, though she omitted the savage beating she had received at Ramsay’s hands and some of Ramsay’s more evil deeds. She was worried Daenerys would think less of her by association.

Daenerys Targaryen proved to be an excellent listener, though perhaps that was more of the queen than the woman. She seemed intent on Alysanne as she spoke, and even poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on the table when her voice began to grow hoarse.

“Once I boarded the boat, the voyage was easy. The easiest part of my journey, really. It was long and tedious, but perhaps tedium was what I needed. I needed do nothing but sit and wait.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrows. “I thought you despised sitting and waiting?”

“I do, Your Grace,” Alysanne said with a small smile. “I have had my fill of it now.”

“That is good, because I expect you back in this chamber tomorrow morning for our first council meeting. Irri will give you a list of other duties and you will be assigned your own cupbearer. Do not think you have my full trust yet, Alysanne Bolton. But I would have you at my side.”

Looking into those deep violet eyes, Alysanne was seized with an almost uncontrollable urge to reach out and take Daenerys’s hand. She clenched her fists in her lap, but did not trouble to hide her smile. “I am very grateful, Your Grace,” she said.

“Do not thank me yet,” Daenerys said sternly, rising to her feet. Alysanne stood with her. They began walking towards the door. “You must prove yourself beyond name alone. The name does not make the woman.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Your Grace.”

She was connected to Daenerys in more ways than she could tell the queen now, or perhaps ever. But this, standing next to her, speaking with her, was enough. It soothed something raw inside her.

“We shall see each other tomorrow, then.” To the Unsullied guard standing feet from the doorway, Daenerys said, “Red Sun, please escort Lady Alysanne back to her chambers.”

Later that night, as Alysanne leaned forward to blow out her candle, she thought of the way candle flame reflected in the queen’s eyes, like the light of a flaming boat upon a wide dark sea.

***

The presence chamber looked larger and less welcoming in the daylight. It seemed more imposing, but perhaps that was merely because Alysanne was about to walk into a room filled with some of the most powerful people in Essos, one of them a queen who was immune to fire and who had mothered three dragons, and speak as an equal among them.

She had plenty of experience in matters of war. She had sat in on some of Doran’s council meetings and he had taught her much and more about politics, but she felt - as she often did of late - that she had leapt off high cliffs into the sea without first learning how to swim.

When she arrived, there were three men seated at the table. One of them was Ser Barristan, and he gave her a kind, grandfatherly smile and gestured to the seat beside him. Eager to begin making acquaintances, she smiled and sat down. On her other side was a large, frankly rather ugly man with a beakish nose and an oily, yellowed face. He smelled sour, like old sweat. Alysanne forced herself not to lean away from him. He seemed to be ignoring her.

Across from her and Ser Barristan, one seat down, was a young Unsullied with short brown hair and an expressionless face. Alysanne recognized him from the audience hall. She smiled at him, and he merely nodded back.

She did not blame the queen’s advisors for being wary. Rubbing the skirt of her simple white gown between her fingers, Alysanne turned to Barristan and said quietly, “Ser Barristan, thank you for vouching for me with the queen yesterday. Her Grace told me that you had confidence in me.”

Barristan nodded. “Aye, I did and I do. I knew your mother when she was a girl, and you have her looks about you.”

Alysanne felt a pang in her chest, but she smiled. “Thank you. I’m sure she would have spoken highly of you, had I known her. You are highly regarded in Westeros.”

Barristan’s mouth twisted a little. “Aye. Well, the king didn’t agree.”

Alysanne frowned. “Who, Tommen?”

Barristan shook his head. “I suppose it didn’t make the rounds in Dorne. I was dismissed from the boy king Joffrey’s service. Barristan the Old, they call me now.”

It was a great shame to be dismissed from the kingsguard, and it was appalling that such a loyal man as Ser Barristan should be dishonoured in such a way. “But the kingsguard serve for life,” Alysanne said softly

“It seems they thought my life was as good as done with.”

“Not according to Queen Daenerys,” Alysanne said.

“No, nor to me. I, much like you, travelled across the narrow sea seeking to serve a worthy king. As it happens, I found his sister instead, and I am grateful for it.”

“As am I,” Alysanne agreed.

More men had trickled in while they had been talking. One of them was accompanied by a suffocating cloud of perfume. He gave Alysanne an ingratiating smile that she could not help but instantly distrust. Another was tall, lithe, and handsome, with a curving mustache dyed blue and a golden tooth. He winked at Alysanne when he saw her glance at him, and she frowned at his forthrightness.

When Daenerys Targaryen entered the room, they all rose. She walked to the head of the table. Like Alysanne, she was dressed in white, though her gown was more elaborate, cinched at the waist and flowing at the skirt. Her hair was braided less intricately than the day before, and the silvery waves had been left loose to be tossed about by the cool breeze.

“Be seated,” Daenerys said, and they all obeyed. The queen made Alysanne's introductions, and then they turned to matters at hand.

“We simply haven’t got the numbers,” Daario Naharis said, leaning back in his chair irreverently. He was the man with the blue mustache who had winked at her before, and according to Daenerys he was the captain of the Stormcrows, a mercenary company from the Free Cities. “The Yunkai’i have more men and that’s an end to it.”

“But the queen’s men are better. Better at fighting, and if they die it's with their spears through an enemy’s heart,” said a large, brash man that Daenerys had introduced as Strong Belwas. “Strong Belwas is worth one hundred of these Yunkai bastards.” He slapped his bare, rotund belly.

“If that’s the case, we need about three score of you,” Daario Naharis said dryly.

“Making peace with the slaveholders is not an option,” Daenerys said in the weary tone of a woman who had repeated something many times. “I will not abandon the Yunkai’i and Astapori slaves - or my own principles. We must defeat them on the ground.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Alysanne said, confused. “But what about the dragons?”

There was a tense silence. Alysanne kept her eyes on the queen, who met her gaze, though Alysanne thought she looked unsettled. Alysanne remembered the strange expression on the queen’s face when she had heard of Drogon's flight over the city.

“The dragons are not an option,” Daenerys finally said, a little tersely. Alysanne’s heart sank. What was going on? She had seen Drogon with her own eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Alysanne pushed on determinedly. The queen shot her a glare that probably should have stopped her in her tracks, but she wouldn’t be deterred. “Your Grace, you are the dragon queen. Captain Daario has said our numbers are weak, but surely three dragons are worth as much as twenty thousand reinforcements. Once the Yunkai’i see the dragons, they might surrender outright.”

Daenerys shook her head. “You will see later, Lady Alysanne,” she said. “I will tell you all you need to know.” Then the queen turned back to her advisors at large. “We need to find another option. The Yunkai’i have more gold than we can hope to provide, and they have thousands of sellswords in their employ. Though Daario does exaggerate their numbers. I am told we are only outmatched by three thousand.”

Daario gave a glib shrug. “That is three thousand too many, Your Grace,” he said.

“My free Unsullied are better tested and trained than these new young slave Unsullied the Yunkai’i are training so hastily, my queen,” said the captain Grey Worm. “And we fight not out of fear, but love.”

“Battle cannot be won through valour and honour alone,” Alysanne said. “But neither is war a matter of tallying up numbers on a sheet. It is like cyvasse. The moves are more important than the players themselves. We have three thousand fewer soldiers, Daario, is that right?”

“Yes,” Daario said. He was eyeing her curiously, as if she were a monkey performing an unprecedented trick.

“So we must avoid meeting all the Yunkai’i in battle at once.”

“How many battles has this one seen?” sneered Skahaz mo Kandaq, the man with the oily face. “You speak as if it is simple. You have fought in many wars, girl?”

“No,” Alysanne said. “None, in fact. But fighters need not be strategists, and strategists need not be fighters. I may be no warrior, but I am not a stranger to war itself.” She thought of the man’s blood staining the snow in the wolfswood, the life seeping out of him.

“Leave her be, Skahaz,” Daenerys said, and Alysanne’s heart lifted a little. “She is right. We are too focused on the numbers. If we cannot match them for strength, we need to outwit them.”

“Then we must send outriders to apprise us of their movements,” said Symon Stripeback. He was the commander of the Free Brothers, one of the queen’s fighting companies of former slaves. "If we know how they will approach, we can use the layout of the land to our advantage.”

“Your Radiance, if I may speak,” said the heavily perfumed Reznak in a voice as oily as his head. He was a seneschal, and Alysanne gathered that this was something like a maester. He bowed at the neck as he spoke, giving him the air of a sleeping snake. “There is one other option, if Your Magnificence will hear it. Your Grace remembers Maron the Mighty?”

“Of course. Has he approached us again?” Daenerys said, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Maron the Mighty?” Alysanne asked. Reznak turned his beady eyes on her.

“Yes, Lady of Westeros,” he said, his voice as cloying as a ripened date, though underneath was an unsettling layer of eagerness.

“Maron the Mighty is Maron Dayne, my cousin,” Alysanne said.

“Indeed,” Reznak smiled. “I wrote to him upon your arrival, for when I learned who your mother was I thought of him instantly.”

“Thank you for taking that initiative, Reznak,” Daenerys said, a little sardonically. “Though you mentioned nothing of it to me. We have been seeking Maron’s aid for weeks now, and I did not know he had ties to House Dayne.”

“My apologies, Your Magnificence,” Reznak said, bowing so low that his forehead almost touched the tabletop. “I must have forgotten to mention it.”

The queen ignored him and turned to Alysanne. “Do you know him well?”

“I do not know him at all,” Alysanne said truthfully. “I have never met him. He fled across the narrow sea before I was born. He committed many crimes,” she said to Daenerys, not sure how much the queen already knew, “but the Daynes speak of him as something of a folk hero. His mercenaries are well-respected.”

“Yes,” Reznak said. “And he has not yet committed his men to either side. Perhaps, if my fairest Lady of Dayne would consider it, she could – if Her Magnificence would allow it, of course – win his favour to our cause?”

“He is hardly going to join us for love of me,” Alysanne said. “He doesn’t know I exist.”

“What exactly do you propose, Reznak?” asked Daenerys.

“Your Magnificence, I am told he misses home, and that seeing his cousin might be welcome.” This struck Alysanne as suspicious. They had never met, and now he was desperate to see her? What was he really after?

Daenerys nodded, seeming heartened. “It can only be to our advantage,” she said. Then she turned back to Alysanne. “Write to him. Start a conversation and see what information you can get out of him. If you can arrange a parley, perhaps we can convince him to come over to our side. You might have something he wants.”

Alysanne agreed readily, but she did not know what she would say to Maron, this man she had never met and had no connections to beyond a name. But she would try, for her queen. Here was her chance to make a real difference.

Once the council had been dismissed and as everyone filed out, Alysanne took her time standing, brushing imaginary specks of dust off her skirt and hoping the queen remembered what she had said about the dragons. When she looked up, Daenerys’s violet eyes were trained on her. She had a small smile on her lips, and looked more relaxed and playful than she had during the meeting. Something about the look made Alysanne’s face warm, and she had to look away.

“You know you don’t have to wait for permission to approach me,” Daenerys said, walking forward to stand next to Alysanne. The queen was a little taller than her, Alysanne noticed. Her forehead came up to Daenerys’s nose.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t want to offend – ”

Daenerys waved her off with a graceful hand. “Don’t apologize. I will tell you everything you need to know.” She sighed, as if steeling herself. “But perhaps it’s better if I show you.”

“Show me, Your Grace?”

“You have seen Drogon already. It is time you met the others.”

> “And you, O my soul, where you stand,  
>  Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,  
>  Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, – seeking the spheres, to connect them;  
>  Till the bridge you will need, be form’d – till the ductile anchor hold  
>  Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my soul.

  
-Walt Whitman, _A Noiseless Patient Spider_


	8. In One Another's Being

Daenerys invited Alysanne to walk by her side on their way to meet the dragons, and as they walked, she spoke.

“Three months ago,” she said, “a man walked into the audience hall, weeping, and dumped a pile of charred bones at my feet.” She looked straight ahead, but Alysanne was intent upon her face. “Through his tears he told that the bones belonged to his daughter. Her name was Hazzea. He said that a winged shadow had come for her and burned her alive."

For a long, slow moment, Alysanne could not understand. Or perhaps she simply didn’t want to.

Then the realization dawned, and it wrenched the breath from her lungs.

“The dragons?” Alysanne said once she had found her voice.

“No,” Daenerys said. “Drogon. The black one, the biggest, the one you saw on your first day in Meereen.” She sighed. “I am their mother, but even I know when my children have grown wild. Drogon has always been fierce, from the time he was a hatchling. When the man put his daughter’s bones at my feet, I… had no choice.”

“The poor child,” Alysanne said, trying unsuccessfully not to picture a tiny girl being roasted alive by dragonfire. "What happened after?" She had begun to fear that the dragons had been killed, but Daenerys had spoken of them as if they were still alive. _It is time you met the others._

“Viserion and Rhaegal were captured and chained in the pit beneath our feet. That is where I’m taking you. But Drogon flew away. He has a lair somewhere, I believe. It grieves me to keep them chained in the darkness, Alysanne, you must understand. My ancestors did so until the dragons dwindled in size and died.”

“You did not do it to be cruel,” Alysanne said gently, then quickly added, “Your Grace.” She was growing too comfortable. She wanted to reach out and touch the queen’s arm, but she thought that might be unwelcome, not to mention inappropriate. “You were protecting your people.”

“My people,” Daenerys said, “want a dragon queen who can control her dragons.”

“How did the Targaryens of old control them?” Alysanne asked as they rounded a corner and started to descend down a flight of wide steps.

“In Old Valyria they used dragon horns, and perhaps blood magic. But it seemed that once they mounted the dragons, the connection was... effortless.”

“Has Your Grace mounted one yet?”

“No,” Daenerys said, and did not elaborate.

They passed the Heart of the pyramid, where Alysanne’s chambers were, and a little cupbearer went scurrying by, stopping to curtsey to the queen. Daenerys smiled kindly at her and greeted her by name.

“Perhaps,” Alysanne ventured, once the girl had disappeared up the stairs, “Drogon is merely waiting for you to mount him?” She was overstepping here and she knew it. Daenerys turned to her, looking surprised and a little irritated.

Alysanne tensed reflexively, still wearing the scars of her time at Winterfell. Part of her thought the queen would slap her for her impertinence, or berate her.

But Daenerys just looked away, seeming pensive. “How do you propose I mount him if I cannot catch him?” she asked.

Alysanne shrugged, relieved. “Well, he isn’t making it easy." 

To her surprise, Daenerys laughed. Not a soft chuckle, but a full belly laugh. It was a pretty sound, almost musical. Alysanne smiled.

Outside the walls of the pyramid, the sun was rising higher in the clear blue sky. As Alysanne and Daenerys walked the halls, passing arches and balconies opening on the outdoors, they were enveloped in the heat. The air was heavy and oppressive, but Alysanne had always loved hot days, and she tilted her face up towards the sun as she walked, closing her eyes for a heartbeat. Suddenly, she felt a hand close over her arm. The touch was like a bolt of lightning along her skin, though the hand was soft and gentle. She opened her eyes and saw Daenerys looking at her, smiling as if in amusement.

“You were about to trip over that flower pot,” the queen said, gesturing to a large clay pot blooming with white and yellow plumerias. Daenerys withdrew her hand. Alysanne’s arm tingled.

“Oh,” she said stupidly. Then, remembering herself, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“No need,” Daenerys replied, still smiling. “I imagine you missed the sun on your journey here? There's no great supply of sunlight belowdecks.”

“It's true, Your Grace. And the sky seemed to always be grey in the North.”

“That sounds abysmal. I need to feel the sun on my skin every day.”

Alysanne smiled, pleasantly surprised at the queen’s familiarity. “Me too.”

They spoke companionably all the way to the deepest part of the pyramid, but as the darkness closed in they both grew silent. It wasn’t a tense silence, but Alysanne felt the distance between them stretch out once again. Daenerys was the dragon queen, and Alysanne a guest on the way to visit her children.

But she was more than a mere guest, wasn't she? In a way, she had been waiting for this her whole life. 

Her heartbeat quickened, but not in fear. Tingling warmth ran up and down the bare flesh of her arms. 

If only Daenerys could know what this meant to her.

They reached their destination at last, and the Unsullied, stationed on either side of the heavy iron doors, stood to attention. The queen greeted the guards by name, as she had the little cupbearer. Then, with surprisingly little fanfare – and indeed, what had Alysanne expected, a trumpet and herald to announce them? – the guards heaved open the doors and Alysanne and Daenerys stepped into the dragon pit.

The thundering sound of the doors closing behind them should have sounded ominous, but it reverberated through Alysanne's chest like a song. 

She looked over the cavernous edge of the pit and saw them.

They were large, though not so great in size as Drogon. They were chained to the floor with links the length and width of Alysanne’s wrist. Both were busy gnawing on large carcasses that might once have been cows.

The one on the left was a pale white, but in the dim light of the torches on the walls, Alysanne could see that he had golden horns and his folded wings were streaked with gold.

The other was green as jade, though some of his scales and his wing bones glinted bronze in the torchlight. He appeared smaller than his brother, but his jet black teeth looked razor sharp and rippled like Valyrian steel.

He looked up and his eyes, molten bronze, met Alysanne’s.

Suddenly, he jerked at his chain, wings flapping uselessly, and Daenerys stepped forward. Alysanne did not flinch. She was transfixed, and her heart wrenched as she watched the dragon struggle. His brother had noticed the green dragon’s distress, and let out a roar that seemed to set the walls to trembling.

The green dragon let out a burst of flame, brilliant yellow and orange and emerald green. It was not directed at Daenerys and Alysanne, however, but at the chain. He let out a roar to match his brother’s, and lashed his tail on the ground as if in a helpless rage. The sound tore at Alysanne's heart. She turned to look at Daenerys.

The queen had an odd look on her face, but she said nothing. Alysanne turned away again and moved forward. She was not thinking as she usually did, considering every step before she took it. She was merely walking, watching the dragon let out another burst of yellow-green flame. She could almost feel its heat.

“Be careful,” Daenerys said. She came up behind Alysanne and reached out, putting her hand on Alysanne’s arm again. Her touch made Alysanne’s skin come alive, and in that moment she had never felt so wide awake.

“The green dragon,” Alysanne said, forgetting Daenerys’s title, forgetting everything. “What is his name?”

“Rhaegal,” Daenerys said, and her hand tightened on Alysanne’s arm for a moment before letting go. “The white one is Viserion. Come. We must go.”

“What?” Alysanne asked, and then she remembered herself, coming back to her senses as if from a dream. “I mean – forgive me, Your Grace. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Do not apologize,” Daenerys said, a little harshly. Alysanne almost flinched, and instead she turned back to look at the pit. Rhaegal roared loudly. “It is natural,” Daenerys said, almost to herself. “Everyone is fascinated, when they first see them.”

Yes, she was fascinated. And she was so much more.

Doran may have lied to her about Daenerys, but she knew now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had told her true about everything else. The feeling was dizzying. She hardly dared to believe it. 

Daenerys gestured towards the doors, and Alysanne walked through them. It felt as if her feet were made of lead. She struggled to keep her face blank. One of the dragons roared again, and Alysanne knew it was Rhaegal as well as she knew her own name.

Once they were on the other side of the doors, Daenerys did not pause, but nodded to the Unsullied and marched past them. Trying to control her breathing, Alysanne hurried after her.

“Your Grace, I hope I haven’t offended you. I know it must be painful for you to see them in such a state.” It had cleaved her own heart in two; how must it feel for their mother?

“You cannot possibly know,” Daenerys said, her voice scathing. Alysanne flushed and went quiet.

They walked back up to the main levels in silence.

***

It was vital that this dinner went well, but all Dany could think about was the dragon pit. It had been three days since she had taken Alysanne to meet Rhaegal and Viserion, and she had hardly stopped thinking about it since.

Alysanne’s eyes had been so bright, but not with the covetous light Daenerys had so often seen directed at her dragons. She had looked with longing, yes, but no greed. The dragons had stirred at their entrance, but had directed no flames towards them. Rhaegal had seemed particularly incensed, and had battled fiercely to free himself of his shackles.

_The green dragon. What is his name?_

_The dragon has three heads._

Was it possible? Or was Daenerys merely seeing what she wanted to see in those lavender eyes, in that warm skin?

She shook her head. She was acting like a foolish girl when she must needs act like a woman. No, not a woman - a queen. A ruler ceased to be a person when she ruled. She must remember that.

Yet the idea of loving Alysanne as she had loved Drogo did not frighten her as she had thought it would. It was the absence of fear that made her apprehensive.

She had not thought about love since her sun and stars had died. He had been taken from her so suddenly, so painfully. She had accepted his death, but he had left a void behind. About once a moon’s turn, she saw his face in her dreams.

She had fallen for Drogo quickly, with all the intensity and passion of a first love. She had known Alysanne for such a short time, but now that feeling had returned. The heady rush when they were close was made even more intense by watching her with the dragons. It made something stir in her blood, dancing like a flame.

But it wasn’t wise. She was only human, and of course she would feel attraction. She had bedded men and women both, and enjoyed them all. Maybe she would bed this one too and be done with it. There was no need to make this into more than it was.

Something about that didn’t sit well. She pushed it away.

_The green dragon. What is his name?_

She ate another fig, maybe hoping to swallow the memory.

Tonight, Hizdahr zo Loraq was visiting and dining with the queen. His cousin, Marghaz, had accompanied him. Hizdahr had been trying desperately to ingratiate himself with Dany all night, and it was growing difficult to keep up the pleasantries. He was still proposing marriage between them, but Dany and her advisors had a different idea. Dany was hoping to appease Hizdahr by marrying him to a woman from another noble family, or to promise his hand to a wealthy Westerosi lady. Making good on that promise would take time, but perhaps Hizdahr was a patient man.

Either way, Dany was reluctant to marry. Deep in her bones, she did not trust Hizdahr, and did not want to give him nearly unfettered access to her. The idea of bedding him made her stomach roll.

It was not that he was ugly, not by any stretch. It was all he stood for that repelled her.

Dany was seated at the high table on a dais, with Hizdahr at her right hand in the place of honour. “Your Grace must understand,” he was saying as Daenerys listened with feigned patience, “that things are changing in Meereen. The days of old, when the masters exercised total control with unquestioned brutality, are over now. This is a new era: the era of Daenerys Stormborn, the dragon queen. And I would walk into that new era with you.”

Daenerys smiled. Did he think she was a fool, to be won so easily with pretty words? “Before us is a new dawn, a dawn born in fire and blood,” she agreed. “And I am grateful for your loyalty. But do you not fear what the future holds for your business?”

Hizdahr blinked. “I do not understand, Your Grace.”

“Then allow me to explain. You are a merchant, yes? And as you would have me believe, you do not trade in slaves. Yet surely most of the goods you have handled during your career have been extracted from enforced labour in Slaver’s Bay. How else could you generate such magnificent profits?" She tilted her chin at him, the gesture meant to encompass the rich fabric of his ornate tokar, the gilded fringe along the hem of his cloak, the blood red garnets at his throat: all the trappings of his wealth and influence. "Of course, the freeing of so many slaves has lowered supply and increased prices. Yet I have heard nothing from you or your associates about financial trouble.”

He took a rather large swallow of red wine from his goblet. “I would not bore your Grace with talk of the minutiae of trade,” he said.

Dany laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Bore?” she said. “I am a queen, Hizdahr, or have you already forgotten?” She looked away, fighting to get her temper back under control. It would not do to antagonize him; she still had plans for him. “I spend half my days talking about the minutiae of trade and economics,” she continued more calmly. “And that leads me to wonder how much of your wealth is sourced from, and will continue to be sourced from, slaves in Astapor and Yunkai.”

Hizdahr smiled, but his cheeks were a little flushed. Dany took a drink of her own wine, relishing the sweet, sharp taste. She could not stop him from trading where he wished, but if he knew her displeasure he might seek out more righteous trading partners than those seven-times-damned slavemasters in Yunkai.

“I do not deny that I would not be so wealthy if it weren't for slaves,” Hizdahr said. “Yet speak to any merchant anywhere in the world and he will tell you the same thing. The world economy itself was founded upon slavery and will not be easily disentangled from it. The wealth with which we are now surrounded comes from, as Your Grace so aptly put it, ‘enforced labour’.” He waved a hand, gesturing at the gold plates, the silken cushions, and the high ceilings of the presence chamber.

“Yes,” Dany said, “and I will use that selfsame wealth to break the chains of slaves from here to Asshai and wherever else I might find them, and when I am done, my people will live in freedom and prosperity." She paused, sitting back in her chair and eyeing him sharply. "You and I may disagree on such principles, Hizdahr, but we may still be of use to one another.”

Hizdahr raised his eyebrows, apparently aiming for nonchalance, but his lively eyes had grown eager. “How so, Your Grace?”

“I hope to arrange a betrothal, not between us, but between yourself and a noble lady of your choosing. Perhaps a woman in Westeros who stands to inherit lands and castles. A marriage can be arranged for your cousin Marghaz as well, if you wish.” Dany nodded further down the table, to where Marghaz sat to the right of Lady Alysanne. He appeared to be talking at great length and Alysanne was looking keenly interested, though Dany assumed that was mere diplomatic mummery as Marghaz was famously dull and liked nothing more than to boast. Hizdahr followed her gaze, looking angry and rather petulant.

“What would Your Grace have me do in return?” he asked, sounding markedly unenthusiastic.

Dany turned back to him, tearing her gaze from Alysanne’s face with some difficulty. “I hope that if the people, namely the Sons of the Harpy, see that I am allying myself with nobles of old Ghiscari blood and arranging marriages for them, they will be content to accept me as queen.”

Hizdahr frowned. His dark eyes glinted with irritation. “I fear that will not be good enough for the Sons of the Harpy, your Grace. They will want to see a man of Ghiscari blood on the throne. Or rather, beside the throne,” he amended. Dany let his misstep pass, though she would certainly not forget it. “I fear they still see your Grace as a usurper. A man of noble blood could wield some influence over them and stop the attacks."

“There have been no attacks since I took the children as hostages.” Dany thought of her little cupbearers and pages - all of them children of Ghiscari nobles - in her keeping for their parents’ good behaviour. Despite her words, however, the hostages were merely a temporary solution, a stall for time. Even if their parents rebelled, Dany would not kill them. Hostages or no, she was not a child murderer.

As if reading her mind, Hizdahr said, “How long does Your Grace think this peace will last?”

Dany was spared from answering by the sight of Hizdahr’s eyes narrowing, though he was no longer looking at Dany’s face. Instead, his gaze was directed down the table. Dany turned and saw what had attracted his attention.

Marghaz was leaning well into Alysanne’s space, pudgy hand on her upper arm. Though Alysanne’s face betrayed nothing, Dany could see she was uncomfortable. She was trying to turn her face away, and Marghaz was leaning forward to whisper in her ear. Dany looked at Ser Barristan, but knew he wouldn’t intervene. He could not risk upsetting the negotiations for the sake of a woman they had just met, even a woman of noble blood. It was not his place.

It was the queen’s.

“Excuse me, Hizdahr,” Dany said politely, and rose. Everyone along the table - mostly her advisors, but some Ghiscari nobles as well - stood too, but she gestured for them to be seated. She was struggling to contain her ire. The sight of Marghaz zo Loraq putting his hands on Alysanne made her belly heat up unpleasantly. She wanted to rip Marghaz from his seat and throw him from the top of the pyramid. Instead, she walked down to where Marghaz and Alysanne were seated. Alysanne was eyeing her with a mixture of fear and relief. Marghaz looked completely unrepentant, as if he had done nothing wrong.

“Lady Alysanne, I see you aren’t feeling well,” Dany said, not bothering to gentle her tone. “Marghaz, you will excuse her.” Dany stepped between them, placing a hand on Alysanne’s shoulder, resisting the urge to wrap an arm around her completely and shield her from Marghaz’s view. “She will be returning to her chambers now. She is still tired from her long journey here.”

Alysanne quickly found her voice and smiled at Marghaz, though her face was worryingly pale. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said. She bid Marghaz a good night with admirable grace, then got to her feet. Dany's hand was still resting on her shoulder.

“I will accompany you to the door, Lady Alysanne,” Dany said.

Reluctantly moving from Alysanne's side, Dany led the way down the steps off the dais, then gestured for Alysanne to walk next to her. She could not resist reaching out to touch her again, anything to feel that delightful, tingling warmth where skin met skin. As they made their way down the side of the dining hall to the great doors at the end, Alysanne said, to Dany’s astonishment, “I apologize, your Grace. I never meant to attract his affections. He was very persistent.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Dany said. Had she thought Dany would be angry with her? “He is a lecherous, incorrigible man, and his brother a cunning fox. I should not have seated you next to him. Are you alright? You’ve lost all your colour.”

It was true. Alysanne looked almost grey. When they reached the doors of the presence chamber, the Unsullied stood aside to let them through and they stepped into the corridor. The air drifting in through the tall windows was cooler and fresher, and Alysanne took a deep breath before appearing to collect herself.

“Yes, Your Grace, I am well. Thank you for escorting me out. That was very kind of you.” She wasn’t smiling her diplomatic smile anymore, and she looked very young and tired.

“What happened?” Dany asked her.

Alysanne turned her head towards the windows and took another breath of the fresh night air. Her black hair fluttered in the breeze. “He reminded me of someone,” she said. “Of Ramsay.” At the look on Dany’s face, she hastily added, “Ramsay never touched me in quite the way Marghaz did, but… it all comes from the same place, doesn’t it?”

Dany knew it all too well. “Ramsay Bolton can’t hurt you anymore,” she said. “He is halfway across the world.”

“Yes, but I can’t be comforted by it, because he may yet be hurting someone else,” Alysanne said. Then she closed her eyes and took another deep breath. “I won’t keep Your Grace any longer. But thank you, truly. It means the world to me.”

Dany nodded, thinking that she would very much like to have a moment alone with Ramsay Bolton and her dragons. “One of my Unsullied will escort you back to your rooms. You will let me know if Marghaz bothers you again.” It wasn’t a request, and they both knew it. Then Dany smiled. “Your queen commands it,” she said, trying to inject some levity into her tone, though the situation was far from funny.

Alysanne smiled back. It was a tiny smile, but it was something.

They parted ways and Dany went back into the presence chamber, telling herself that it didn’t feel wrong to leave Alysanne’s side.

***

As soon as Alysanne reached her rooms, she vomited into her water basin.

Marghaz zo Loraq had reminded her viscerally of Ramsay, with his hot, wet breath and his boastful attitude. When he had started touching her, pawing at her, she could have ripped off her skin rather than spend another minute with him so near.

Hot tears stung her eyes and she wiped them away as she lay in bed, trembling, despising herself for her weakness. She thought of Daenerys, how fierce she had looked walking along the dais, stepping between Alysanne and Marghaz, resting her hand on Alysanne’s arm, telling her that Ramsay couldn’t hurt her anymore.

Why had she done it? More than likely, she did not want to lose Alysanne’s support and loyalty by allowing visiting delegates to grope her.

Rubbing at her ear as if she could scrub away the memory of Marghaz’s breath against her face, Alysanne was forced to confront something.

Every time she saw Daenerys, it felt as though, for an interminable instant, she had forgotten how to breathe.

She had been telling herself it was relief at finally being where she belonged, at having successfully reached Meereen and realized the destiny that her mother had set out for her so long ago. Then she had tried to explain it away as admiration. Daenerys was, after all, an admirable queen.

Now, though, she knew the truth, knew it as well as she had with Arianne. 

It was not the queen that rendered her breathless, but the woman.

After Arianne, she had told herself she would never love again. She felt no attraction to men and a woman could not expect to find true love with another woman twice in a lifetime, for so few women were willing to take a female lover. In Dorne masculinity or femininity was considered of little import when it came to sex, but how might the queen feel? Barristan had told Alysanne that Daenerys had been deeply in love with the Dothraki man she had married. Drogon had been named for him. Surely the queen would never return Alysanne’s affections.

Tonight, when Daenerys had stepped in front of her, shielding her from that awful man, Alysanne had wanted to hold her hand and kneel at her feet. She wanted to kiss her skirt and kiss her lips and walk through fire for her, if need be.

Alysanne closed her eyes and got up to bathe, desperate to scrub away Marghaz’s touch. 

If she thought again and again of how the queen’s hand had felt on her arm, well, who would ever know?

***

> “The Fountains mingle with the river  
>  And the rivers with the ocean,  
>  The winds of heaven mix for ever  
>  With a sweet emotion;  
>  Nothing in the world is single,  
>  All things by a law divine  
>  In one another’s being mingle  
>  Why not I with thine?”

-Percy Bysshe Shelley, _Love’s Philosophy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More flower symbolism: plumerias symbolize beginnings.


	9. Morn to Night

Four days after her encounter with Marghaz, Alysanne had woken early, head full of racing thoughts, and was wandering the halls of the Great Pyramid in the simple white gown she had purchased from Grezna on her first day in the city. She had been in Meereen for over a week and was eager to become better acquainted with the layout of the palace. She meandered up and down flights of stairs, letting them take her in arbitrary directions and enjoying the sea air and the pink rays of the rising sun spilling through the arched windows. On a tiny balcony on the east-facing side of the pyramid, she found a clay pot spilling over with red star flowers. Delighted, she gently plucked one and carried it about with her, admiring the beautiful petals and wondering what to do with it.

Irri and Jhiqui’s shared rooms, she knew, were a floor or two below her own. Even so, she had not expected to run straight into Irri when she rounded a corner. Alysanne gasped, nearly dropping her flower.

Irri had initially been resistant to Alysanne’s attempts at friendship. She was suspicious of outsiders, and fiercely loyal to her queen. She had recently thawed towards Alysanne, however, and Alysanne thoroughly enjoyed their conversations. Irri was clever and funny with a sharp wit and a no-nonsense attitude that Alysanne respected and admired and somewhat hoped would rub off on her. Next to Barristan Selmy and the queen herself, Irri was Alysanne's closest friend in Meereen. When Alysanne wasn’t in council with the queen, updating her on politics in Westeros or writing letters for her, she sometimes sought Irri out and the two would swap stories of their homelands.

Irri laughed at Alysanne's surprise, but not maliciously. “You are up early,” she observed as she fell into step beside Alysanne. “Even the khaleesi does not rise at this hour.”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to explore.”

“What did you find?”

“Well,” Alysanne said, eyeing her flower with a sudden stroke of inspiration. Hopefully Irri would not see it as overly familiar. “I found this.” She held the flower up for Irri’s inspection.

“It is a star flower,” Irri said, nodding. “The Ghiscari say it symbolizes death and sorrow, but we Dothraki have a different interpretation. We say that star flowers were crafted by the hand of Mother Mountain, to bring comfort in times of trouble.”

Alysanne smiled. It was perfect, then. “Here,” she said, holding out the flower. Irri looked surprised. “For you.”

“You are giving me a gift?” Irri asked, eyebrow raised. She did not take the flower.

Alysanne nodded, but now she was growing apprehensive. Had she disrespected an unknown custom? The last thing she wanted was to offend Irri. “I thought you might think it was pretty,” she explained. “I only wanted –” She stopped when Irri reached out and took the flower, holding it in cupped hands.

“We do not say thank you in Dothraki,” she told Alysanne, who nodded.

“I know.” They were both smiling. 

When they parted ways and Alysanne returned to her room to prepare for council, she felt more relaxed than she had since the night of that dreadful dinner. If she could not have the queen's love, at least she might have Irri's friendship.

There was a scroll on her desk bearing Maron's seal, which was not unusual. His envoys often dropped letters off with the Unsullied, who passed them to Barristan to read before one of the cupbearers took them to Alysanne so that she could craft her reply. They must have come while she was away. 

She broke the seal and unrolled the letter. She read the contents.

Her jaw dropped.

***

When Alysanne arrived at council that morning, the room was crackling with tension. Daenerys was already in her place at the head of the table and her eyes darted immediately to Alysanne as she came in. Most of the others were already assembled.

Daenerys looked resplendent in a silver silk tokar, her hair braided intricately. Alysanne wanted to tell her about the letter right away, but the look her the queen's face changed her mind. Something had clearly happened, and if it was related to the letter’s contents, it might be wiser to wait and find out what it was.

As she took her place beside him, Alysanne murmured to Ser Barristan, “Her Grace looks upset. Has something happened?”

Barristan nodded. “There was another attack this morning by the Sons of the Harpy. The first in a long while.”

“What?” Alysanne was about to ask who had been attacked, but then she remembered the hostage children. “The queen won’t…” She thought of little grey-eyed Kezmya, who loved to hear stories about Alysanne’s childhood in Dorne, and of dark-haired Mezzara, a shy little soul with a voice like a nightingale.

Barristan understood her unspoken question. “No,” he said. “I do not think she will have the children harmed. Some of the advisors, however –”

Daenerys called the council to order, cutting off whatever Barristan had been about to say.

“Most of you already know about the attack last night,” she said, her voice weary and hoarse, as if she had not slept. “They murdered a freedman named Izarro, a carpenter rising in standing in the city. They pulled him from his home, forced him to run down the street naked, and whipped him to death. They hung him from a grapevine outside one of the old palaces.”

Alysanne closed her eyes briefly, as if she could shut out the image. This kind of violence could not be allowed to continue, but killing little children would solve nothing.

“They must pay for this, Your Grace,” Daario Naharis said, leaning forward, eyes blazing. “They must see that their queen will answer blood with fire. Feed their whelps to your dragons, and they shall know who rules in Meereen.”

“It is the right course of action,” agreed Ben Plumm. “I know Your Grace has come to care for the children, but they are, at the end of the day, hostages. If you don’t get rid of them now, you will lose the respect and fear of the people.”

“If Her Grace feeds children to her dragons, she will lose the people’s love,” Alysanne argued. “And the dragons will become objects of fear and loathing instead of inspiration. If the Sons of the Harpy would risk the deaths of their kin, the hostages have served no purpose. To kill them now would be senseless, Your Grace, with all due respect.”

“Of course the Lady Alysanne would have the children nestled close to her bosom, protected from all harm,” sneered Skahaz Shavepate.

Alysanne shook her head, not believing what she was hearing. Did they truly think that answering violence with violence, death with death, would bring an end to this misery? “I would not sit by and watch fifteen innocent children killed in a free city.”

Skahaz scoffed. “There is no such thing as an innocent, my lady, and the sooner you learn that, the better."

“I will not have the children killed," Daenerys said. Everyone turned to look at her, some in relief but most in vexation.

“Your Grace,” said the Shavepate, “a queen’s word is her honour. If you go back on it now –”

“If Her Grace does not execute the children, it will soon be forgotten,” Ser Barristan said. “If she feeds them to her dragons or even quietly disposes of them, the people will use it as evidence of her monstrosity for generations to come.”

“More children died under the Great Masters than they will as hostages under the queen,” said Daario Naharis. “If Your Grace would be tenderhearted, have your men creep into their chambers at night and smother them in their sleep. They will die quietly and comfortably, and your enemies will know you are a queen who keeps her word.”

“I will not be a child killer,” Daenerys said firmly. “If it involves the murder of children, it is no honourable deed, whether I gave my word or not. We will find another way.”

“If Your Radiance would hear my advice,” Reznak said in his nasally voice, “I would remind her that there _is_ another way to prevent these abhorrent killings. A very reliable way, if Your Magnificence does not mind my saying so.”

Here was Alysanne's chance. She drew Maron's letter out of her pocket. Barristan gave her a questioning look. Daenerys also noticed the movement, but her eyes flickered away from Alysanne as she addressed Reznak.

“Hizdahr was not receptive to my suggestion of arranging a marriage between him and another woman,” Daenerys said. “He insists upon marrying me. And perhaps it would be wise.” She sighed, looking almost defeated, and Alysanne’s heart seemed to fall into her belly. Somehow, she had not expected Daenerys to even think of agreeing to the marriage, though it was a prudent choice based on all the information at the queen's disposal. _What did I expect, that she would marry me?_

“It would be a wise decision, Your Grace,” Reznak said excitedly. Alysanne sat up straighter, setting the letter on the table in front of her. “Even the Green Grace herself, the highest priestess in Meereen, supports the union. If there is a consort of Old Ghis in the Great Pyramid, the –”

Alysanne could not wait any longer. “So you say,” she cut in, and Reznak shot her a look of half-hearted contempt, as if she were a particularly persistent fly buzzing about his head. “But I must ask: why Hizdahr? Surely there are others of old and wealthy blood who could be presented to the queen?”

“Hizdahr zo Loraq is of the ancient and noble blood of –”

“Yes, yes, but so are dozens of other young, eligible men in the city. I ask again: why Hizdahr?”

“What do you have in your hand, Lady Alysanne?” Daenerys asked. Throughout her verbal volley with Reznak, Alysanne had been keenly aware of the queen’s gaze on her, and now Alysanne handed her the scroll on which Maron had written the information that would change the course of Daenerys's rule.

“I have a letter in my cousin Maron’s own hand, left for me this morning. It contains reason enough, I think, for Your Grace to hesitate in marrying Hizdahr, and in employing Reznak." 

Murmurs swept long the table.

“Your Grace, this is preposterous!” shouted Reznak, his unctuous manner dissipating. "This foreign whore is attempting to sabotage me.”

“I am not,” Alysanne replied calmly, ignoring the way Daenerys’s face twisted in anger at the word ‘whore’. “You are the one who set up my dialogue with Maron, Reznak, and assured us he was a valuable source. I’m only the messenger. Shall I tell everyone what the letter says?”

Daenerys had taken the letter, but she was looking at Alysanne. She nodded once.

“Reznak has gone back on a deal with Maron that he made a long time ago, and Maron is sorely displeased. It seems that Reznak owes Maron a lot of money, and Maron thinks Reznak has outlived his usefulness as an ally.”

“A deal?” snapped the Shavepate. “What sort of business would a seneschal have making deals with a sellsword?”

“None,” Alysanne said. “Because Reznak is not a seneschal. Your Grace, before you sits Tirhaz zo Loraq, Master of Meereen, father of Hizdahr zo Loraq, and the Harpy himself.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Daenerys had not reacted. She was reading the letter, brow creased. Finally, she looked up and fixed Reznak with a look that would have sent many a brave man or woman to their knees. Fortunately, Reznak was already seated.

“Your Radiance, she is lying,” he said, shaking his head as if he could not contemplate the injustice of it all. “She has taken advantage of my kindness.”

“This information comes not from me,” said Alysanne. She did not understand how he could sit there so calmly after all he had done, after all the violence he and his constituents had wrought. “Your Grace can see with her own eyes my cousin’s seal.”

“Why should I take Maron at his word?” Daenerys asked, though Alysanne thought she knew what Daenerys really believed. “Does he offer proof?”

Reznak grinned triumphantly, though his lips twitched and Alysanne knew that he was hoping Maron had not given them the one piece of information that would mean his undoing.

Unfortunately for him, Maron was a thorough man.

“All the Sons of the Harpy share a mark,” Alysanne said. “And Maron has seen Reznak’s. It is a tattoo of a golden wing on his lower back.”

There was a long, tense silence. If Daenerys did not believe her, what then? Or if Maron had lied? But that was doubtful, considering his eagerness to make an ally of her. Whatever happened, Alysanne thought as she steeled herself for Daenerys's next words, it would be worth it. She would do it a thousand times over for this city, and for its queen.

Then Daenerys said, “Seize him.”

The Unsullied leapt forward, nimble as cats, and grasped Reznak by the upper arms. He shouted, cursed, and proclaimed his innocence in at least three tongues. Barristan stood, a hand on the hilt of his sword, but Reznak was hardly a match for two young, brutally trained soldiers.

“Pull up his tokar,” Daenerys said. They did, revealing hairless legs and wrinkled buttocks. Somewhere in the most tender recesses of her heart, Alysanne pitied him.

But she did not regret it, for there upon his back, shining clear in the sun despite Reznak’s struggling, was a small golden wing.

***

That night, Dany summoned Alysanne to her rooms.

Tirhaz zo Loraq had been dragged off to the dungeons and would be kept there until Dany figured out what to do with him. As much as she wanted to simply toss him into the dragon pit and let Viserion and Rhaegal do the rest, she knew he was a valuable source of information. Hizdahr was being sought out, along with his cousin Marghaz. They were undoubtedly complicit, as was the Green Grace. They had already questioned several of the sons of the masters, and they had admitted Reznak’s true identity without much prompting.

He had played her for a fool, and she was furious. He had acted the part well and he had certainly had help, but he had taken advantage of her and hurt her people. Hopefully, with the head of the Harpy cut off, the body would fall with it. At the very least, they no longer had the snake in the council chamber with them, living in her palace on her own expense.

The ordeal had also left her confused. In the House of the Undying, she had been told that she would know three treasons: once for blood, once for gold, and once for love. She had no doubt that Mirri maz Duur had been the first, and until this morning had believed Jorah Mormont to be the second. He had spied on her for gold, but in the end he had saved her life. Had she been wrong to send him away? Perhaps he wasn’t the second treason after all. Tirhaz had not betrayed her for love, after all. Unless the Undying had been wrong? 

She was turning this over in her mind, belly churning with frustration and anger, when Irri opened the door and announced Alysanne. It was like something cool had been poured over Dany’s head, stifling the flames of her ire.

Alysanne greeted the queen with a curtsey and Dany rose as she entered, thinking that she would rather Alysanne didn’t make such obeisances. It was like placing a barricade between them.

Dany led Alysanne to the little table by the window, a small stone structure where Dany often supped. Dany had ordered spiced wine and olives for them.

Alysanne looked very fair tonight, Dany thought, with her black hair loose about her shoulders. The dim light made her light purple eyes look almost blue, like the sea beneath the silver moonlight.

“I want to thank you,” Dany said, pouring Alysanne a goblet of rich hippocras. “You have done us a great service.”

Alysanne smiled, but shook her head. “Your Grace is very generous, as always,” she said. “But it was Maron’s work. As I said, I was the messenger.”

“But you have established a rapport with him,” Dany insisted. “If he was not convinced of your reliability, he would have found some other way to get his revenge on Reznak. Or Tirhaz, I should say,” she added irately.

“Perhaps, Your Grace. But Maron has an agenda of his own. He wants something, and badly.”

“That is just as well, as long as we can give it to him. Allies won through bribery are the most dangerous, but sometimes the most reliable. Want is a powerful motivator.”

Alysanne nodded, still looking troubled, and sipped from the goblet. Her eyes widened, then closed as if in bliss. “This is hippocras from Dorne,” she said, eyes still closed.

“As I said,” Dany replied. “I wanted to thank you. I hoped you would know it.” 

Alysanne looked at her as if in wonder. “That is very thoughtful, Your Grace.”

“Tell me about Dorne.” _Tell me everything about you._

Alysanne looked wistful, her eyes soft and warm. “It was my world for twenty years. My time in Dorne was the happiest time I can remember, and the most carefree. It was warm and sunny, much like here, and the breeze… it was hot, but it caressed you, almost like a lover’s touch. The water was always my favourite, though. There were miles of beaches, and the water always made me feel… clearer, somehow.” She paused, looking a little embarrassed, and took another drink from her goblet. Dany watched her, transfixed. Her face glowed when she spoke of Dorne. It was almost transformative. She looked truly happy. Dany wished she could keep that look on Alysanne’s face forever.

“If it’s not too familiar, I would love to hear of Your Grace’s childhood,” Alysanne said.

Dany hesitated, surprised. Very few people ventured to ask about her early years, when she was a lost exiled princess with not a coin to her name. Sometimes she felt as if she had lost that little girl, cast her aside to become the queen she was today. Alysanne looked away, perhaps having mistaken Dany’s momentary pause for some kind of haughty outrage at the question.

As Alysanne opened her mouth, probably to apologize, Daenerys reached forward and placed a hand on top of hers, just for a moment. Then she drew it away and spoke.

She talked of her childhood, first of happier memories and then, when Alysanne proved an intrigued and empathetic listener, of sadder ones. She told Alysanne of the house with the red door, where she had felt more like Dany than Daenerys Stormborn, and of Viserys, when he had been kind, before the madness had taken him. But before long, looking into Alysanne’s understanding face, she found herself talking about Viserys’s cruelty and greed, of how frightened she had often been as they shuffled from place to place in the Free Cities, of being forced to leave the house with the red door after Willem Darry’s death and how Viserys had slapped her for crying. Of parting with her mother’s jewels, all she had left of the woman who had died giving birth to her. Of losing Drogo and Rhaego, her first love and her first child, to the treachery of Mirri maz Duur.

Alysanne looked at Dany so tenderly. Under those eyes, Dany felt more like a woman than a queen. That flustered her more than any pretty face ever could.

“Losing home is like losing a limb,” Alysanne said quietly some time later, after they had been sitting in companionable silence for a while, having consumed all the olives in the bowl. They were leaning back in their chairs, gazing out at the starry night. "And losing family like losing a piece of your heart."

“I am sorry that you had to be parted from your own home,” Dany said, though the words seemed hollow in comparison to Alysanne's. She had an effortless expressiveness of diction that even Dany could not hope to match. It had made an impression on her from their very first meeting. “And from your childhood. Why don't you write to the Martells and tell them where you are?”

Alysanne looked down at the goblet of spiced wine in her hands. “I can't,” she said. “Prince Doran - my foster father - had plans for me, and all he’ll want me to do is come back and fulfill them.”

“Plans for you to take back your seat,” Dany guessed.

“In a sense,” Alysanne said, still staring into her wine. She sounded bereft. “Those were always my plans too. But then… then I found out about you.”

“Found out about me?”

“At Winterfell. Roose – my father, that is – mentioned you one morning at the breakfast table. You and your dragons. Doran had kept you a secret from me.” Her voice was very soft, as if whatever she was saying was a secret, somehow.

“Why would he do that?” Dany’s voice had gone quiet too.

She sighed. “I don’t know. Perhaps he knew that I might do something he wouldn’t like. Such as cross the narrow sea to join you." The two women shared a small smile, then Alysanne grew serious again. “He is a very secretive man, and his plans do not always become clear until the very end of whatever game he is playing. I am starting to see that now.”

“Did you love him as a father?” Dany asked.

“Yes,” Alysanne said without hesitating. “Idolized him, even. I love him still, despite his flaws.” She looked up, not at Dany, but at some point in the distance, as if seeing into the past. “I never knew my mother, as you know. Or my father.” Then she looked down, shaking her head. “I mean, not really. I only met him when…” She closed her eyes as if she could not bear to continue. “But Your Grace understands. We all have sorrows in our pasts.” She had drawn a curtain closed, and Dany wanted to open it again.

She didn't.

“The past is sorrowful indeed, but our present is promising.” She raised her goblet, and Alysanne imitated her. Her smile was back, but less radiant than before. 

“To freedom,” Dany said. Alysanne echoed her.

They drank deeply. The wine trailed a line of fire down Dany’s throat.

***

> “Does the road wind up-hill all the way?  
>  _Yes, to the very end._  
>  Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?  
>  _From morn to night, my friend._
> 
> But is there for the night a resting-place?  
>  _A roof for when the slow dark hours begin._  
>  May not the darkness hide it from my face?  
>  _You cannot miss that inn.”_  
> 

-Christina Georgina Rossetti, _Up-Hill_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of Izarro is based on real brutalities inflicted on former enslaved people in the Reconstruction-era South, including the idea of those in power being threatened by the economic success of those they considered beneath them.


	10. The New World's Worth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone reading regularly, I'm sorry it's been a few days. I'm pretty swamped with uni starting back up plus other commitments.
> 
> Also, as I was editing this, I exited the page somehow and lost all my changes. I was already exhausted because it's pretty late but I kept going because 1) I was pissed off and stubborn and 2) I was worried I would forget all the changes I'd made by the next morning. I think I got them all but there might be typos/little mistakes. Hopefully not.

_She was born into summer’s keeping  
Her eyes were the sun redrawn  
Her hair was as black as a blackbird’s wing  
Flying east into the dawn_

__

__

_He'd been touched by the fingers of winter  
His breath was as cold as ice  
In a dark, stone stupor he slept until  
Her kiss brought him back to life_

Dany paused at the door, listening, allowing herself to be transported by the music and the sweet voice.

Truth be told, it was not the most beautiful music Dany had ever heard. She had been travelling across Essos and witnessing masters and mistresses of music at work since her childhood. Their silver tongues and clever fingers crafted melodies that entered and lifted the very soul. No amateur could ever hope to compare.

It was not the song, but the woman singing it, that held her spellbound. Listening to her was like looking into her heart.

Dany waited for Alysanne to finish before knocking on her door, trying to keep the wonderstruck smile off her face. She half succeeded.

Alysanne opened it and a look of surprise flashed across her face when she saw her unexpected guest, along with something that Dany thought - and hoped - was pleasure. She warmly invited Dany in and bade her sit.

“You play beautifully,” Dany said as they settled into two chairs on either side of the little table where, Dany supposed, Alysanne took her supper. The harp, a little silver piece, sat atop it. _She ought to have more space,_ came the thought, unbidden, and Dany ignored it. As much as she liked Alysanne, she couldn't be seen to play favourites. Nevertheless, she did rather like to entertain the fantasy of having Alysanne a floor below her in the consort's rooms, which were almost as sumptuous as Dany's own.

Or, better yet, in her bed.

“Thank you." Alysanne smiled in response to Dany's words, reaching out to brush the harp with her fingers. "The song - the one I was playing just now - was written for my cousin at her birth. I used to play it often, back home. But I have no harp here, so I commissioned this one from the court luthier." Then she fixed Dany with a shrewd look. "But surely Your Grace did not come to pay me kind compliments. Is anything the matter?” 

"Nothing more than usual." The past week had seen the capture of many of the Sons of the Harpy, and no more attacks had occurred since Tirhaz's capture. But the Yunkai'i, by all accounts, were still preparing to march on Meereen. Dany’s mind was filled with burgeoning battle plans and scout reports, but even that was not why she had come. "I came to speak with you about tomorrow. Are you ready?"

Alysanne nodded, but she shifted a little in her seat as if the mention of it put her on edge. “As much as I ever shall be. I wish we knew what he wanted. I haven't any idea of what to expect."

“He won’t harm you. You will have four Unsullied with you. They will keep you safe.”

“Are you certain I need that many, Your Grace?”

Dany pursed her lips. The following day, Alysanne would enter Maron Dayne's camp to parley with him and, if all went to plan, win the Purple Swords over to their side. Dany was not going to send Alysanne into that snake pit alone, and even four Unsullied seemed a paltry guard. The idea of Maron's men turning on Alysanne, of her life being snuffed out like a candle flame in a puff of wind, made Dany's stomach lurch unpleasantly in a way it hadn’t since Drogo’s death. “It isn’t up for discussion,” she said, a little more harshly than she had intended.

She immediately regretted it when Alysanne looked away, her cheeks colouring.

Dany reined in her emotions with some effort. Her anxiety had coiled into a whip of fire and lashed out at the person she least wanted to hurt. “I’m only trying to protect you,” she said, more gently. “I know you have a tender heart, Alysanne, and you want to see the best in people, but you must insist on seeing the worst in Maron.”

Alysanne nodded, looking pensive and fiddling with the skirt of her gown, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. “I've made that mistake before, I am afraid,” she said. "Being too trusting. Seeing what I wanted to see and not looking beyond. I won’t do it again.”

“What happened?” Dany asked, surprised.

“When I arrived in the North,” Alysanne said, “I found out I had been sent a maid in waiting. She told me her name was Mara Glover.”

Dany thought she could see where the story was going, but she let Alysanne continue.

“She was so sweet - so kind and shy. I was protective of her. I told her no secrets, but I let her see far more of my daily goings-on than I should have. I suppose I was so lonely and desperate for a friend that I did not stop to think how strange it was that she had no letter from Lord Glover for me, or that our septa sometimes gave her strange looks, as if she were somehow reprehensible - and a thousand other odd things that I ignored. As I eventually found out, she was Ramsay’s bedwarmer and spy. On the day of our escape, as we were crossing the bridge between the armoury and the Great Keep, she appeared out of the shadows and aimed a crossbow at us. She had it pointed at me when Theon pushed her off the bridge into the courtyard. I’m sure it killed her. There's no chance she could have survived.” Alysanne stopped there and drew a deep, almost gasping breath, as if she were surfacing after being held underwater. “The sound she made when she hit the ground...”

Dany regretted that Alysanne had been forced to endure such a thing, but she found herself grateful to Theon Greyjoy. If it weren’t for him, Alysanne might not be sitting in front of her. She thought of taking Alysanne’s hand and her fingers twitched with the urge, but she stayed them. Instead, she asked, “Why didn't you say anything?"

Alysanne shook her head. A light breeze blew in through the window and lifted a strand of her thick black hair, then settled it back against her shoulder. Dany watched, mesmerized for a moment, then collected herself. “I wanted to. You have no idea how much. But I feared you would think I was too great a fool to be of any good to you as an advisor.”

“You are not a fool,” Dany said firmly. “It wasn’t your fault. They brought it on themselves. I told you what happened with the witch who murdered Drogo. You are not the first person to be deceived by such a plot, nor will you be the last. Tirhaz has been double-crossing me with impunity for months.” The very thought sent a bolt of hot fury down her spine.

“It’s not the same thing," Alysanne protested. "Half the city was conspiring against you. They’re far more worthy opponents than Ramsay Bolton and Myranda... well, whatever her last name is. Was.” Then, as if wishing an end to this particular conversation, she deftly changed the subject back to Maron. Reluctantly, Dany let her, and they spoke of the parley for another hour.

At the end of that hour, as Dany was leaving, she turned back at the door. The space of things left unsaid between them stretched out like a void. The urge to fill it with something was irresistible.

“They say my brother, Rhaegar, played the harp."

Alysanne smiled, a little sadly. “He did. And quite skillfully, as I’ve heard it. They called him the silver prince.”

Before she could change her mind, Dany said, “I always imagined him to sound something like you.”

Alysanne raised her eyebrows. “Your Grace pays me a great compliment.”

“Not at all. I hope I can hear you sing again.” Then, before she could say something that revealed the extent of her true feelings, she continued. “You will do well tomorrow."

Alysanne nodded, jaw set with determination. “I know not what he will ask of me, but I'll do all I can to give it to him. All and more, if it means that Meereen will stay standing." Then she seemed to deflate a little, and she rested a hand against the doorframe as if suddenly too weary to hold herself up. "Can I ask Your Grace a frank question?"

"Yes," Dany said, perhaps too eagerly.

"Do you think he'll do it? Come over to our side, I mean?"

Dany paused for a moment, considering. "I don't know. But that - the not knowing - is something we must all grow used to. To accept that you can't know everything - especially the future - is what makes a competent ruler."

Alysanne grimaced. "I understand, but I'm afraid not knowing isn't something I'll ever be happy about, Your Grace."

Dany smiled. “It is the only way to survive as queen, when treasons and politics and war lay out before you like a maze, with paths stretching in all directions. You cannot walk every which way.”

Alysanne’s gaze was inscrutable, but intense. “Do you ever wish you could see to the end of the maze?” she asked. “Or rather, to the heart of it?”

Dany sensed they were talking about something more than queenship, that they had returned to those uncertain waters of emotional intimacy, where the waves might rise up and swallow you whole if you so much as dipped a toe beneath the surface.

But oh, those waters were so inviting, and Dany would willingly have leapt in head-first.

So she told Alysanne the truth.

“Always.”

***

Maron’s camp lay on the outskirts of Meereen, five miles east of the Great Pyramid. It was surrounded by desert and by a pit filled with spikes, spanned by a narrow wooden bridge. As Alysanne’s horse ambled over it, Alysanne couldn’t help but imagine herself and the Unsullied being thrown onto those spikes if the negotiations went poorly.

Her mind had been increasingly in turmoil as of late. She was growing increasingly distressed by her own dishonesty, and she had been reading Ashara’s letter so often that it had developed more creases in the time she had been in Meereen than it had over the past two years. She wondered what Doran was doing, and had started and thrown away several letters to him. In truth, she missed him.

But such thoughts would not serve her now. All her attention had to be on Maron.

Daenerys was not with her, and she was sorry for that, for she drew strength from the queen’s presence. However, the four Unsullied guards made her feel safe. Maron had refused to allow the queen to enter the camp, but Daenerys had been immovable on the guards. Alysanne was touched, though she told herself it was nothing more than the queen trying to protect an asset.

She dismounted in front of a grand silk pavilion, a purple monstrosity accompanied by a banner emblazoned with the arms of House Dayne. That was bold, Alysanne thought. Usually exiles did not use the sigils of their houses for themselves. Even Daemon I Blackfyre had reversed the colours of the Targaryen sigil for his own arms. Clearly, Maron the Mighty thought well of himself.

And there was the man now, coming forward to receive her. He was tall with enormous arms and a tapered waist, giving him a vaguely triangular shape. He wore nothing but a sleeveless jerkin split open at the front, as if to showcase the muscles of his abdomen. His hair was black and thick and reached his shoulders, and his eyes were a striking shade of indigo. He looked every inch the Dayne.

“My lady, thank you for gracing us with your presence,” he said genially, bowing his head at the neck. He was flanked by two impassive-looking guards.

Alysanne inclined her head in return. “You have an impressive camp, Ser Maron,” she said, gesturing at the thousands of men gathered in front of tents in groups, talking and laughing and drinking, many looking with undisguised interest at their little gathering.

“I devoutly hope so,” Maron said, still smiling that affable smile. Alysanne doubted there was much devout about Maron. “But let us get out of this hideous heat,” Maron said. “Come in.” He turned and led the way into his pavilion. He did not walk so much as swagger, nor did he look to see if Alysanne was following.

If the exterior had been impressive, the interior was positively gaudy. Evidently, Maron loved purple; purple silk cushions were strewn about the anteroom, purple rugs adorned the floors, and the goblets and plates on the table were set with purple stones that might have been amethysts. Maron gestured to Alysanne to sit in a chair opposite him. It was draped in purple silk.

He regarded her closely after they had taken their seats, and his intense gaze made her uncomfortable. Nevertheless, like most women, she was used to the impudent stares of men and refused to quail. She leaned back in her chair, trying to exude tranquility and composure.

“You have brought a regiment, my lady,” Maron said, gesturing to the Unsullied with a meaty hand. His tone was jovial enough, but his purple eyes were hard as steel. Before she could answer, he changed the subject. “But pardon! Where are my manners? Will you all drink?” He clapped his hands and a serving girl emerged from the shadows, scantily clad and carrying a pitcher of wine. She looked no more than fourteen and quite terrified. She poured for them, her hands shaking. Alysanne only glanced at her, but she felt anxiety coiling in her belly. Who was this?

She addressed Maron. “I will, thank you, but I’m afraid the Unsullied do not take refreshments while they work,” Alysanne said, for this was true. At a signal from Maron, the young girl poured wine into Alysanne’s goblet. Alysanne thanked her, but she did not reply. “And I must thank you in person for all your help, Ser Maron. Your assistance has been pivotal in ending the tyranny of the Sons of the Harpy and bringing peace back to Meereen.”

Maron smiled and leaned forward, hands clasped between his spread legs. “I would have _everlasting_ peace in Meereen,” he said. Alysanne was heartened by this, but as she opened her mouth to respond, Maron pulled the young serving girl into his lap.

The girl gasped, then clapped a hand over her mouth as if wishing to take back the outburst. Alysanne’s face spasmed, but otherwise she remained expressionless. She rubbed the skirt of her gown between her thumb and forefinger, then spread her palm flat in her lap.

She wanted to take the girl in her arms and whisk her away, back to the palace, to Daenerys, to safety.

If she did that, it could condemn Meereen to ruin. They couldn’t afford to offend him.

It could be a choice between this girl and thousands of others.

Determinedly, she put the question aside for the moment. There was nothing for it but to move forward. “I’m sure there is something we can do for you, Ser Maron, to ensure that your favour lasts.”

Maron was still smiling, but now it looked more predatory than friendly. “You see, Lady Alysanne, my interests are closely aligned with the queen’s. She will return to Westeros one day, will she not?”

“She will,” Alysanne said. “Her Grace intends to take her rightful place upon the Iron Throne.”

Maron nodded. “She calls herself Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. But she can’t enforce that if Meereen is in shambles.”

“Why does the queen’s birthright mean so much to you?”

Maron slid his hand up the girl’s thigh. Alysanne clenched her fists to stop herself from reaching out and pulling it away. “The queen’s birthright can hang,” he said. Alysanne raised her eyebrows. His eyes glinted with a fierce light. “I speak of _my_ birthright.”

Understanding dawned. That was his endgame, then. The purple cushions and the banner outside made sense now. “You want House Dayne.” Alysanne kept her voice impassive, but inside she was reeling. “You want to be Lord of Starfall."

“Very good,” he said, fondling the girl’s breast. Alysanne couldn’t stand to watch it any longer.

“What is your name?” she asked the girl, who looked up nervously at Alysanne’s words. When she saw that Alysanne was looking at her, she looked even more frightened. Maron looked confused.

“My name?” he asked, then understood. “Oh, this one?” he said, then shot Alysanne an amused grin. “You don’t need to know her name. Are you treating with her or me?”

“Perhaps I will someday be treating with her,” Alysanne said. “Is she the future Lady of House Dayne?”

Maron chortled. “I think you know the answer to that, cousin. She is a warm body in my bed at night, to be sure. Would you like to hear more about it?”

Alysanne would have liked to see Maron the Mighty escorted back to the Great Pyramid in shackles. She turned the subject again.

“I think I will pass for the time being. Ser Maron, I cannot promise you House Dayne. We would have to oust its current lord, your own brother and my cousin. We can grant you lands, to be sure. Not every lord or lady will support the queen’s claim. Some will lose their castles when Her Grace takes the throne.”

“I do not care for any old castle,” Maron said, leaning back comfortably. “If that were the case I would stay here, where I have my very own kingdom.” He pinched the girl’s leg, and she squirmed. Her eyes were filled with tears. “What I want is my father’s seat. My elder brother is a weakling and a sot. I could restore House Dayne to glory.”

It was true enough that Cletus Dayne was a gentle, cautious man with more heart than wits, but Alysanne doubted that this callous, cunning would-be usurper would be well received by his subjects. _We do not prey upon little girls in Dorne_ , she thought of saying, but the words sat stagnant in her mouth. She hated herself for her silence.

“The way I see it,” Maron continued, “you either give me House Dayne, or you lose Westeros altogether, along with Meereen. Seems a fair trade.”

“Not to cousin Cletus.”

“Cousin Cletus will piss his breeches when he sees the queen’s dragons. Perhaps he will die of fright and do us all a favour.” He laughed again.

“Then his daughter would inherit.”

Maron shrugged. “Give me her hand, then. Women are easily done away with through marriage. One of their more pleasant attributes. Saving Queen Daenerys, of course. She is a gem among women indeed. But then, she has dragons.”

“The queen does not rule by virtue of her dragons. There are few rulers like her - kings or queens - in history.”

Maron sat back and smirked, and Alysanne realized that she had done just what he wanted. Now he knew that her heart was in this, not only her head. She was, unwittingly, playing his game.

“Alysanne - may I call you Alysanne?” Without waiting for a response, he continued. “My help has been invaluable to you, and all I ask in return is your help in procuring what I am already entitled to by blood. You must admit that you owe me a favour.”

He wasn't wrong, but Alysanne didn’t feel right making such a promise. “Maron – if I may call you Maron – I cannot assure you so great a boon. That is up to the queen, and she will be wroth with me if I offer you House Dayne without her permission.”

“I see.” Maron’s thumb traced slow, lazy circles on the thigh of the girl in his lap. “And will she be wroth with you if you lose my support entirely? Because that's what will happen if you leave here today without making this deal. I will take my troops to the Yunkai’i and you will be finished.” Gone was any pretense of joviality. He was as hard and unshakeable as stone.

With the metaphorical maze stretching out before her, Alysanne had to make a choice. If she made the wrong one, people would die. For that matter, if she made the right one, people would die.

Was there a right one, in a situation like this?

She could think of one good choice, at least.

“Then you leave me no option, Maron. I will promise you Queen Daenerys’s help in procuring House Dayne when we take back Westeros, in exchange for your victory against the Yunkish armies. If the battle is lost, the deal is off.”

Maron regarded her for a moment, then nodded his head. He clapped his hands and a contract was produced, needing only Alysanne’s signature at the bottom.

They gave her a quill, and she put it to the paper, then stopped, looking up sharply in time to see the hunger in Maron’s eyes. He tried to school his features when he saw her looking, but it was too late. He had shown his hand. They both knew that in that moment, there was little he wouldn't do to see Alysanne's name in shining black ink at the bottom of that scroll.

“One more thing,” Alysanne said, as if just thinking of it. “I want the girl.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Maron said.

“Did you not hear me, or did you not understand the request?”

Maron’s eyes darkened in anger. “She is not for sale.”

“I didn’t ask to purchase her. She's not a slave, is she? Slavery is forbidden in Meereen, as you might have heard.”

“You think I will give you my own whore?”

“Yes. Or do you prefer this so-called whore over House Dayne?”

There was a long silence. Then, abruptly, Maron shoved the girl off his lap. She stumbled, and one of the Unsullied caught her.

“Take the little bitch. She is dry as desert sand.”

“Spare us the details."

“Sign the fucking paper, cousin.”

She gladly obliged.

Once the contract was signed, Alysanne, the guards, and the girl stepped out into the sunlight. Alysanne looked over at her and wondered with a stab of uncertainty if she really had done the right thing. She remembered Daenerys’s story of Mirri maz Duur. Should she have asked the girl if she wanted to leave Maron? But how could she have been honest with Maron so near? And there was no guarantee that she even spoke the Common Tongue.

Alysanne turned to the girl, intending to ask her name again, but the girl spoke first.

“Where are we going?” She spoke the Common Tongue without a trace of an accent. Her eyes were big, dark, and intelligent. Alysanne wondered how much she had seen that no child should ever see.

“To the Great Pyramid. The queen will protect you for as long as you wish. From there, you can go wherever you like.”

The girl nodded without changing expression. “To answer your question from before,” she said, “I’m called Loreza. Do you know about the others?"

"What-" Alysanne started to ask, but as she turned back to look at the tent, the question died on her lips.

Maron stood at the pavilion entrance, and beside him was another girl.

She was even younger than Loreza, maybe twelve or thirteen. She did not look frightened, as Loreza had. Her eyes were dull and expressionless. She looked, but didn’t see. Alysanne started to walk back towards them.

Then she realized that she had no more influence. She had given Maron what he wanted. He could have a dozen more girls in there, and she had no more signatures or titles to dangle in front of him to convince him to give them up.

He was in control now.

Alysanne made herself look into the girl’s eyes, trying to apologize without speaking. It wasn’t enough. The girl didn’t meet her gaze, didn’t even seem to notice her.

She turned and walked away, every step a failure.

***

When Alysanne apprised Daenerys of the meeting's events, she had not been as angry as Alysanne had feared. She was irritated at Maron’s presumption and shameless ambition, but she had assured Alysanne that she had done all she could. “If you had refused, we would have been lost,” she had said. “You have given us a way forward.” Alysanne was deeply grateful for her understanding.

Of course, there was a way out of the contract. They did not have to give House Dayne to Maron when they returned to Westeros. But she could not tell Daenerys that. Not yet.

When she had told Daenerys of Loreza and the other girls, the queen had grown furious.

“He thinks he is invincible,” she had said, eyebrows lowering like clouds over her stormy purple eyes. “A man who preys on children is no man at all.” After that, she had gone ominously silent and pensive, and Alysanne had departed soon after to attend to her other duties, leaving the queen to her thoughts.

Loreza was planning on leaving the Pyramid the next day, and would not tell anyone where she was going. She had, however, entreated Alysanne to save the others. Other than that, she would say no more of where she had come from or what she had endured. 

Alysanne swore to herself that even if it took a hundred years, Maron's other victims would see the light of day and he would be brought to justice.

But not, she thought - and it sickened her - until this battle was won and the city was secure.

Besides Alysanne and Daenerys, Ser Barristan and Grey Worm were the only members of the queen's inner circle who knew of the meeting’s outcome. Barristan had looked concerned, but had not openly disapproved. Grey Worm was inscrutable as always, though Alysanne sensed he felt she had usurped the queen’s place in signing that document. Alysanne agreed with him.

They were gathered around the council table now, all of Daenerys’s advisors and Daenerys herself, looking regal and resplendent in a rose-coloured tokar with her hair piled atop her head. Her hands were folded elegantly on the table as she called the meeting to order. She was not a lively woman, Alysanne had noticed. Her movements were graceful and purposeful, and she rarely gestured with her hands when she spoke. But everything she did - speaking, walking, merely looking down the council table as she did now - carried with it an innate power and vigour that stemmed from somewhere deep inside her, somewhere that could not be reached by tutoring or through practice. It was a gift, and Daenerys wielded it as well as any ruler ever had.

“As we’re all aware,” she began, “Ser Maron has pledged us his service.” She gestured to Maron the Mighty, who sat near the foot of the table, leaning back in his chair and looking for all the world as if he were king.

“Aye, and at what cost?” said Ben Plumm. Maron laughed. 

"That is not your concern," Daenerys said.

Ben sent Maron a contemptuous scowl, but said no more.

“The Yunkai’i march ever closer, with twenty thousand foot. With Maron’s aid, we have twenty-one thousand. As far as numbers go, we are fairly evenly matched. As Alysanne has said, we must rely on the moves now, not the players.”

“We must not give the Yunkai’i any opportunity to lay siege to us,” Barristan said. “Meereen is, in effect, an island. We'll have little chance of smuggling food in from the outside.”

“We will meet them outside the walls,” Daenerys agreed.

“We need to prioritize defense,” said Ben Plumm. “If they scale the walls or batter down the doors into the city, it doesn’t bode well for us either.”

“Archers should be placed at a height,” Alysanne said. “The Yunkai’i will have siege towers, surely.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Daario Naharis. “And a hundred other tricks up their sleeves.”

“My Unsullied tell me they bring two siege towers,” Grey Worm said. “Taller than our walls.”

“At the Battle of Blackwater Bay, the city was defended with fire,” Alysanne recalled. “We may not have the dragons, but surely we can use fire to some effect. Flaming arrows would be an effective deterrent.” As she spoke, she tried to distance herself from images of soldiers being struck down and dying in agony. She thought of the Bolton man in the wolfswood, blood staining the snow.

“They used wildfire at Blackwater Bay,” Barristan said. “Thousands of jars of it. We have nothing of the kind, nor the time to develop it. The Yunkish army will be here within days.”

“But we have men, weapons, and walls,” said Symon Stripeback. “Let us make use of what we do have, not worry about what we do not.”

“You are all forgetting about the extra thousand men,” said Maron, speaking for the first time. He had an innate charisma too, Alysanne grudgingly admitted to herself. When he spoke, people listened. But there was something sharper and keener about him. As if you might cut yourself on his edges if you drew too close.

“We have an advantage over the Yunkai’i simply because we have more fighting bodies. The Yunkai’i will come storming up, no doubt, because that is their way. They will immediately begin attempting to scale the walls. Place the weakest fighters as a buffer between the enemy and the city, and let the archers on the battlements pick them all off with their arrows. If we take out some of our own, ‘tis no great loss.”

His callousness was repulsive. Alysanne hoped that Daenerys would not agree to this plan. How could Maron be so cavalier about throwing away lives like worms on a fishing hook? Then again, that was what they were discussing, wasn’t it? Was a life worth less simply because it wasn’t dedicated to their own cause? She knew the answer to that, and it didn’t make the discussion easier.

Fortunately, Daenerys did not look enthused at his idea. “It would be a waste of fighters,” she said. “What is more, the Yunkai’i may not scale the walls at all. They might dig tunnels underneath, or find some way to effectively shield themselves from arrows.”

Maron’s mouth twisted. He was clearly used to giving the orders. “As Your Grace commands,” he said, his tone suggesting he would rather spit at the queen’s feet. Daenerys shot him a contemptuous look. Her upper lip twitched.

Alysanne leaned forward, hoping to redirect attention before an argument broke out. “Maron has a point.” The words tasted like ash on her tongue and earned her a few unimpressed looks, but she pressed on. “We do have a thousand extra foot, but there is no need to throw them away. We can use them as insurance without placing them at unnecessary risk. Leave them to wait in the background. Whichever way the Yunkai’i go, our thousand waiting men will intercept them. If they dig tunnels, these men can pick them off. If they scale the walls, they can join the archers in cutting them down. If they storm us as one great cavalry, they can join the fighting forces. The important part is that the Yunkai’i do not know they are there.”

Daario was nodding. “Keep them in the shadows out of sight, so we may creep up on the Yunkai’i and stab them in the dark.”

“If it please my queen, this one thinks we are taking too great a risk by allowing the Yunkai’i to come anywhere near the walls,” said Marselen. He was a quiet, thoughtful freedman who did not always speak during councils, but when he did it was with sound advice. As captain of the Mother's Men, he was a just and highly regarded commander. Daenerys nodded at him to continue.

“We are allowing the Yunkai’i to dictate the terms of this battle. They will surround us and we will have to fight by their rules. If we meet them out in the field, far away from the city, they will not be expecting it and will have to readjust their plans. And they will surely suffer for it.”

It was so clear in hindsight that Alysanne didn’t understand why no one else, including herself, had thought of it. With Maron’s aid, they were no longer relegated to defense, for they could match the Yunkai'i man to man. And Marselen was right: the Yunkai’i would not be expecting to be met out in the field. After all, why give up such a strong defensive position?

But it made sense. For weeks the queen had been sending outriders to spy on the Yunkai’i. She knew their numbers and marching pace and it would be easy to take them unawares along the road. It would be much harder for the Yunkai’i to gauge what was going on in and around Meereen, and if Daenerys's armies were to assume their positions overnight and hide in the desert hills, any scouts who rode out (and horses were rare enough in Essos) would not see them until it was too late.

The element of surprise would be on their side.

***

The council had remained in session for hours, mapping out battle plans and arguing and tossing ideas back and forth among them. On her first day, Alysanne recalled saying war was like a game of cyvasse. But it proved even more complicated, for the pieces were living. 

She was standing on her balcony, breathing in the salty air, looking west over the bay and knowing that home lay somewhere in the distance. Once this battle was fought and won, maybe they could think about going back there.

She turned and went back inside, intending to sit at her desk and address the stack of documents she had to look over. Was it her imagination, or had it grown taller since she had left for council that morning? Kezmya, her cupbearer, must have dropped more off. Seven hells, why were so many people writing so many things?

But just as she went to take a seat, there was a knock at the door and Irri stepped in without waiting for Alysanne to respond. 

Alysanne raised her eyebrows. "Shouldn't you wait for me to invite you in? I could have been naked."

Irri shrugged. "You have nothing I've not seen before," she said. "The queen wishes to see you in her chambers."

Alysanne's belly fluttered. She was not quite in love with the queen, but sometimes at night, when her imagination ran away with her as it often did, she thought that it wasn't such a remote possibility. When she had these thoughts, fear mingled with hope in her heart until she could not tell one from the other.

When she reached Daenerys’s apartments, still smiling at a story Irri had told her about the escapades of one of the Meereenese hostage boys Ser Barristan was training at arms, she found the queen standing ready to receive her. When she saw Alysanne’s face, her pensive frown disappeared and she looked almost soft.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked, gently taking Alysanne’s arm and leading her towards the balcony.

Her chest filled with heat at the surprisingly familiar gesture, and Alysanne had to swallow before saying, “Irri, Your Grace. She’s quite the story teller.”

“She is. I hope you will forgive me for the abrupt summons, but I had hoped to show you something.”

Being so close to the queen was like drinking a goblet of potent Dornish wine, and Alysanne felt giddy and warm. “What is it?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

They had reached the balcony, which was massive and dotted with lemon trees and rich flowers in shades of orange and pink. Alysanne marvelled at them, but Daenerys strode past them as if she didn't see them, her arm still linked with Alysanne’s. Then, when they reached the edge of the balcony, she pointed upward.

There, at the top of the pyramid, Drogon was perched.

It was her third time seeing a dragon, but still Alysanne felt as if the breath had been knocked from her lungs. He was magnificent up close, gleaming and fierce. Daenerys kept her hand on Alysanne’s shoulder, and the combination of sensations made Alysanne feel as if she were floating. Was this what it felt like to fly?

Dimly aware that she should probably say something, Alysanne choked out, “He is beautiful.” 

“And fiercer than his brothers,” Daenerys said, moving closer still. She smelled a little like cinnamon and the scent of her made Alysanne heady. _Control yourself_ , she thought, but she was no longer sure that she wanted to.

“Why has he come here?” Alysanne asked. Her voice was a little hoarse and she cleared her throat, neck still craned to look up at the dragon. Daenerys was right beside her now, shoulder to shoulder, and Alysanne turned to look at her. Daenerys had her head tilted back to look at Drogon, face glowing golden in the sun, but she looked away and met Alysanne’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” Daenerys admitted. “I have my suspicions.” She sighed. “I should have said this earlier, but I am very appreciative of all you’ve accomplished with Maron. He has proven to be... different from what we had hoped.”

"We'll find a way to save those girls. They'll be free again."

“When you left for Maron’s camp, I feared that something might happen to you.”

Against her will, Alysanne’s heart began to pound. She feared - rather absurdly - that Daenerys might see it jumping in her chest.

“There is something I must –”

But Daenerys’s words were cut off by a powerful sound like a thunderclap as Drogon spread his wings and took flight.

Black as jet, he blotted out the sun as he rose and soared gracefully down towards them. The cacophony of hard scales against stone rang through the air as he perched on the edge of the balcony, his red eyes glowing like coals over a fire. He stretched his neck out, his snout inches from their faces. Daenerys’s hand was on Alysanne’s back and Alysanne could not remember her putting it there.

Then the queen stepped forward and put her hand on Drogon’s face.

It was one of the most heart-wrenching and heartwarming sights Alysanne had ever seen. Daenerys’s eyes were full of adoration, and she had a sweet smile on her face that Alysanne would have liked to paint so she might look at it whenever she pleased. There was pain on her face too, and longing. They could have stood there for seconds or hours, Daenerys looking at her child with a mother’s eyes.

Then she looked at Alysanne and said, “Touch him.”

Self-doubt and uncertainty usually reigned supreme in Alysanne’s mind, but something about the presence of a dragon seemed to alleviate it. Perhaps it was the fact that if Drogon had wanted to burn her to a crisp, he would have already done it. Maybe being in the presence of so much power was kindling for courage.

Alysanne reached out a steady hand and placed it on Drogon’s scales. They felt like plate armour. He moved under her palm and his red eyes fixed on her, intent, considering.

Then he closed them, seeming at peace.

The two women locked eyes over his head, and it felt as though the sun had risen in Alysanne’s heart.

Drogon twitched, the only warning before his wings were spreading again and that thunderclap sound rent the air once more. He rose and turned, scales reflecting the glare of the setting sun. The space where he had been seemed to hum, as if he had left something of himself behind.

Daenerys moved further away from Alysanne's side, opening a yawning chasm between them. For a moment, Alysanne was seized with the urge to grab hold of her, to preserve a moment that she surely would only live once and was already fading fast.

“Where has he gone?” she asked, watching him disappear into the distance. Daenerys looked at her, eyes filled with tender heartache. The sun was at her back and Alysanne thought that perhaps she could be religious after all, if this was what it felt like to worship something. Then Daenerys looked back out over the sea. Alysanne looked with her.

“Somewhere I cannot follow,” Daenerys said. “Not yet.”

***

That night, Daenerys dreamed again.

She dreamt of a dragon with three heads and purple eyes, of fire and a sweet, gentle smile, of Alysanne being borne into Maron’s camp in a blaze of light. The song that Alysanne had sung rang, clear as a bell, in her head.

When she awoke, she knew what she had to do.

***

> “We, in the ages lying  
>  In the buried past of the earth,  
>  Built Nineveh with our sighing,  
>  And Babel itself with our mirth;  
>  And o’erthrew them with prophesying  
>  To the old of the new world’s worth;  
>  For each age is a dream that is dying,  
>  Or one that is coming to birth.”

  
-Arthur O’Shaughnessy, _Ode_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A luthier is someone who builds string instruments. Only putting that in because I had to look it up, though maybe you folks are more well versed in occupational terms than I am.
> 
> I also want to note that military history is not my area, so please excuse any errors. Apologies to anyone out there who is knowledgeable about battle strategy, as I'm sure there are some inaccuracies. That being said, the idea of the extra forces waiting in the wings is based partly on the Battle of Bosworth Field, when the Stanley forces decisively turned the tide of battle in favour of Henry Tudor by "waiting and watching" and determining which direction the battle was going to go.


	11. Unto My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I said I'd have this chapter up by the end of this week and I barely made it, but I made it just the same! Things have been a bit busier than usual this week because I was unexpectedly nominated for a research grant and I've been putting the project proposal together. I still wanted to give myself enough time to give this a proper edit, and I'm glad I did because I'm much happier with this version than its predecessor.
> 
> Anyway, enough of my rambling. Enjoy the chapter!

The next night, Dany summoned Alysanne to sup with her. She watched her across the table, marvelling at the way her eyes lit up when she laughed, at the wistful sound of her voice when she spoke of her home, and at the true, pure goodness of her heart. Dany thought she would hold that heart in her hands forever, protecting it from harm, if Alysanne would let her. 

When they had finished eating, Dany stood and Alysanne stood with her. “May I show you something?” Dany asked with a smile. “I fear it’s not so magnificent as Drogon, but I think you’ll like it all the same.”

“I’d be delighted, Your Grace.”

Side by side, they walked out to the balcony, turning to the right outside the doors of the queen's apartments. Their way was lit only by torches and moonlight. They walked, shoulders almost brushing, until they turned a corner and passed through an archway.

Alysanne gasped, and Dany smiled at her. 

The queen’s private garden was an array of night-blooming flowers, and under the silver light of the moon they seemed almost alive. To the right and left of the garden path were yellow primroses, glowing white moonflowers, brilliant pink lotuses, and rich night roses in deep blood red. Ahead was a pond, its surface glimmering as it rippled softly in the night breeze. On its surface floated a dozen pink water lilies, deep green leaves spreading out beneath them.

“A secret garden," Alysanne murmured.

Dany laughed in surprise and pleasure. She had never thought of it in such a way, but Alysanne was right. A secret garden. A secret between the two of them, now. "I suppose it is," she said. 

Alysanne stepped forward, looking about at the floral bounty that surrounded them. Dany had eyes only for her. “Has this always been here? Or did Your Grace have it built?”

“It was here before my arrival, but I had it refurbished,” Dany replied as they walked down the garden path. “It was wilting, much like the rest of the city. It's filled with life now.”

“I could not agree more." They reached the pond and Alysanne bent down to look at it more closely, her black hair almost brushing the water as she ran her fingers over its surface. 

“You are the first person I've brought here,” Dany said. 

Alysanne looked up at that. Her gaze sent shivers down Dany's spine. She stood slowly, expression unreadable. 

Dany wanted her, there was no doubt of that. And until this moment, she hadn't stopped to consider whether or not Alysanne would want her back. There was an undeniable connection between them, but it was no small thing to take on the mantle of the queen's beloved.

Dany bent down and plucked a moonflower, stroking the soft white petals with her fingertips. She moved closer to Alysanne. They were so close that if it had been daylight, Dany could have counted her eyelashes.

“This would look beautiful in your hair,” Dany said, lifting the moonflower up a little for Alysanne's inspection. 

Alysanne's serious expression finally broke, and she smiled. “Then perhaps Your Grace would do me the honour of placing it there,” she said.

Dany took another step forward. If either took a deep breath, their chests would touch. Alysanne smelled fresh and clean and being so close to her was like standing next to a flaming torch. Any closer and most people would be consumed. 

Dany was not most people.

Gently, she took a strand of Alysanne’s thick, soft black hair and tucked it behind her ear. Her skin was smooth and warm under Dany’s hand. Dany tucked the flower into her hair, nestling it carefully amongst the strands. Against the darkness of her tresses, the moonflower lived up to its name. It was like a moon in the night sky. 

Slowly, giving her time to move away if she wanted to, Dany reached out and took her hands. Alysanne responded immediately, wrapping her fingers around Dany's. It was like putting on a perfectly fitted glove.

“May I kiss you?” Dany asked. 

Alysanne's smile grew wider. She was brighter than the moonflower, brighter than the moon itself. Dany wondered how she had never noticed that Alysanne was the most beautiful woman in the world. “I thought you’d never ask,” she said. 

They leaned forward as one, and their lips touched almost torturously gently, as if they were afraid to break whatever wonderful spell held them together. Despite the chastity of the embrace, heat thrummed along Dany's mouth. Experimentally, she deepened the kiss, letting the tide of her passion carry her away. Alysanne returned the gesture eagerly, and with a skillfulness that suggested that this was her hundredth kiss if it was her first. Far from being disappointed, Dany found the thought exciting. After all, what lover could compare with a queen?

Dany’s whole body was tingling, swept up in the essence of Alysanne. They could have been anywhere in the world, in the midst of a battle or a winter storm, and she would have known of nothing but Alysanne and her mouth.

Then Alysanne pulled away. Dany's lips felt cold and empty, like they couldn't remember how it felt to be untouched. But her stomach dropped when she saw that Alysanne had tears in her eyes. As she watched, stricken, one slipped over onto her cheek.

“What is it?” Dany asked, placing a hand on Alysanne’s cheek and gently wiping away the tear with her thumb. Alysanne looked away, seeming embarrassed. “Please, tell me what's the matter.”

Alysanne drew a shaky breath and lifted her eyes to Dany’s face. Her gaze was bright, but there was something darker in it that Dany didn’t understand. Something like pain.

“Honestly, Your Grace,” Alysanne said, “I’ve forgotten how it feels to be this happy.” 

Deeply relieved, the queen said: “Dany.”

Alysanne looked confused for a moment, then her eyes widened as she understood. “Dany,” she said, standing on her tiptoes so her lips brushed Dany’s mouth as she spoke. The sound of the name on her lips was sweeter than nectar. Their breaths mingled in the night air.

Dany leaned forward and their lips met again. 

This time there was no hesitation. They were pressed against each other, their dresses the only obstacle to skin meeting skin. Their hands were everywhere, exploring, touching, drawing in as much of the other as they could. Alysanne was not a timid kisser; her caresses were bold and self-assured. She was limber and eager in Dany’s arms, and her mouth was soft and supple as a rose. As they deepened the kiss, Dany abandoned any pretense at self-control and let herself collapse into Alysanne until she forgot to breathe, so lost was she in their togetherness. 

Dany could have lain with her then, right there in the garden, becoming one with her under the moonlight. Steeling herself, she drew back, breathing heavily. Alysanne’s lips were swollen and red, her eyes dark with desire. She followed Dany as she moved away, then seemed to regain her senses and drew back. The look in those bright lavender eyes was almost irresistibly fierce. The sight set Dany ablaze with longing, and she had to curl her toes in her slippers to ground herself and keep from reaching for Alysanne again.

“We need to talk,” Dany managed to say. 

“What about?” Alysanne asked. Her voice was hoarse. 

“You are special. The dragons are drawn to you.”

Alysanne smiled, a little impishly, and clasped Dany's hands in hers again. “The dragons? Does that include you?”

Dany snorted, a very undignified sound for a queen. She didn't care. “I think my actions speak for me.” 

Alysanne grinned, but then the mirth faded from her eyes and she grew serious again. “I am drawn to them too. Maybe it sounds foolish, but it’s as if we were destined to find each other."

Dany understood. “When I visited the House of the Undying, I saw a prophecy. It was my brother, Rhaegar, speaking of a dragon with three heads.”

Alysanne’s lips were parted quite attractively, and her eyes were shining. “Three heads? Like the sigil of your house?”

“Yes,” Dany said. “But I think I understand what it means now. There are three dragons, so there must be three riders. You feel drawn to Rhaegal, I know. I think, someday, you will ride him.”

Alysanne smiled and looked up at Dany in a way that made Dany want to hold her close and never let her go. 

And tonight, she realized, she could hold her, though eventually she would have to let her go. So Dany pulled Alysanne into her arms and she went willingly, resting her head on Dany’s shoulder. “If you are the first head and I am the second, who is the third?” Alysanne asked.

“I don’t know,” Dany admitted, gently rubbing a hand up and down Alysanne’s back. “But let’s not worry about it now. That will come when it comes.”

They stood there for a long while, Alysanne in Dany’s arms.

“Dany?” Alysanne said.

“Yes?” Dany asked, unable to hold back a smile. She would never grow tired of hearing Alysanne say her name, she thought.

“What of the future? Surely you must marry and produce heirs. I can never be anything more than a bedwarmer.”

Dany pulled back and took Alysanne's face in her hands. Her eyes were dry now, but her lips were pursed in concern. Dany brushed a finger over them and they softened at her touch.

“I cannot know what the future will bring,” Dany said. “But you will never be only a bedwarmer. You are _perzys isse ñuha ānogar_. The fire in my veins.”

“Oh, Dany,” Alysanne said. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes tightly. “It’s very cruel of you to make me cry twice in one night."

Then they were both laughing again, a little helplessly, leaning against each other, arms around each other's shoulders. Dany couldn’t have said why it was so funny, or whether it was funny at all. Somehow, though, the laughter was more intimate than the kiss.

“I want you,” Alysanne said when their giggles had finally stopped. She reached up to touch Dany’s face, her gentle hand trailing its way down Dany’s cheek to rest at the corner of her mouth. “So much it frightens me.”

“Do not be afraid,” Dany said. “You are safe with me.”

Alysanne nodded. Her eyes were like a purple flame in the dark. “I know,” she said. 

Dany believed her.

***

The night before a battle, Alysanne was learning, was a strange one. 

It was a night like any other and like no other. It could be an end, or a beginning, and so it seemed to teeter on the edge of reality and dreams.

One thing was certain: twenty-one thousand soldiers were encamped on the outskirts of Meereen, ready to fight for Daenerys’s cause, and by morning, many of them would be dead. 

She and Dany were standing on the balcony of the queen’s apartments, not touching. Alysanne still found it difficult to initiate contact, though if she had it her way they would forever be hand in hand. But it was like reaching for something forbidden, and she still feared the day that Dany would draw back from her.

The city was a constellation of night fires below them. Alysanne hoped the people were feasting and making merry, and that they would remain untouched by what was to come. She thought of the dragons below them in the pit, and Drogon somewhere off in the distance. She wished that she could see Rhaegal, but she did not want to ask Daenerys for that either. Her adoration of the queen was a cautious one. Unlike the wild and carefree love she and Arianne had shared in their childhood, this love was hesitant and fraught with logistics and worry. Even as her romance with Daenerys unfolded before her, giving her more happiness and purpose than she had thought she would ever have, she felt that she must constantly fight to keep it alive. For surely such a great woman would tire of her eventually. 

Daenerys had spoken of the prophecy, but could Alysanne really have such an important role in the future? She had been reshaping her own destiny of late, but never before last night had she dreamed that it would involve riding a dragon alongside a queen and conqueror who, for reasons unexplained, had fallen for her.

Alysanne’s doubts were by no means Daenerys’s fault. Dany – and how strange it was to think of her as Dany – was attentive, kind, and gentle. In private, she showed a tenderness that Alysanne knew she could not afford to reveal to her courtiers. And yet all of this made it even more difficult for Alysanne not to bring them even closer together by telling the truth about why she had really come here, and what Dany truly meant to her.

If their fledgling love was a flower, Alysanne feared the secrets she was keeping would tear it from the ground, roots and all.

But the truth could not stay buried forever.

“What are you thinking about?” Dany asked her.

“You,” Alysanne said, for it was the truth, in a way. Dany arched an eyebrow and turned to face her.

“That cannot be all,” she said. “You have been quiet for so long.” She ran a hand up and down Alysanne’s arm soothingly. Her eyes were filled with worry. What a woman she was, concerned for Alysanne the night before the battle that would determine the future of her reign.

Alysanne took Dany’s head, linking their fingers and taking a moment to marvel at how perfectly they fit together. “There is something I need to tell you.” 

“Oh?” Dany frowned, squeezing her hand. “You know you can speak freely.”

“I should have said it before.”

“Then say it now.”

Alysanne took a deep breath, pausing for a moment. She could speak the words aloud now as she never had before. She could make the choice that hurt, as Brienne had once advised her.

But in the end, fear won out. Fear of losing Dany, fear of being alone again. Maybe fear and uncertainty would always win, in the end.

So she told a different truth, though no less painful.

“Back in Dorne, I… I loved another. And now she is dead.”

Dany was quiet for a long time. She did not let go of Alysanne’s hand, but still Alysanne began to panic. Did Daenerys want her pure and virginal?

Then Dany said, “What was her name?”

It was not the question she had expected.

“Arianne." How long had it been since she had spoken the name? It was like revisiting that time, like stepping, for the briefest heartbeat, back into her childhood. “Arianne Martell. She was the future Princess of Dorne.”

“You were raised with her.”

“I was.”

“What happened to her?” 

“She grew ill and died. It was so slow, so quiet. In some ways that was the worst thing. The most painful to endure. She was so full of life, and when death came for her it took her heart and soul before it took her body. If she had to die, it should have been in some great, heroic way. She should have died laughing and smiting her enemies. Instead, she died a shell of herself.”

When she stopped speaking, she realized Dany had taken her other hand. Alysanne held onto her, grounded by the contact. Dany was the first person to hear her say those words. They had lived in her mind for years, and now that she had released them, she felt a little lighter.

“I’m sorry. She sounds like a great woman.” Dany lifted a hand and brushed a lock of hair behind Alysanne’s ear.

“She was. And she would have been a great ruler. It seems I have a pattern.” Alysanne smiled.

Dany smiled back, warm but a little sad. Her hand was cupping Alysanne's face. “You do,” she said, and she leaned in and pressed her lips to Alysanne’s cheek. It was a lingering kiss, soft and almost proper, but it sent waves of warmth through Alysanne's chest and loosened the tight fist curling around her heart.

When she pulled away, Dany kept her hand on Alysanne’s face. “I want to hear these things, you know. I want to hear everything about you.”

Gods, those words sent her reeling. Dany didn’t and couldn’t know what they really meant to her, but she felt as if she could live on those words for a thousand years, drinking and feasting on them instead of food and water. 

Because if Dany did know everything, she might never want to see Alysanne again.

“One day soon,” Alysanne promised, “I will tell you everything.” Then she tilted her face up and kissed her.

Kissing Dany always felt like a burst of starlight and flame, but now it felt like sinking into a hot bath. The touch of Dany’s lips loosened the lump in her throat and she thought that if Dany ever let her go, she would be adrift. She poured all her heart into that kiss, her grief for the soldiers who would die on the morrow, her fear for the citizens of the city if they lost. And, threading through it all, her love for the queen. For that was what it was, she knew. Not liking, not even infatuation. It was love in its purest form.

“I feared you would be upset that I had been with someone else before you,” Alysanne admitted when they parted, and leaned her head on Dany’s shoulder as the queen’s arms wrapped around her waist. 

“That would make me the greatest fool who ever lived,” Dany said. “Jealousy is not a pretty thing. I learned that much from my brother. We both had lives before we met, and loves too. Now our lives have come together, and so have we.”

Alysanne tilted her head up again to kiss Dany's cheek, breathing in the cinnamon scent of her hair.

“Look.” Dany gently maneuvered her so she stood looking out at the city below and, off in the distance, the desert beyond the walls. She put her hands on Alysanne’s shoulders, nose gently brushing the back of her head.

“What am I looking at?” Alysanne asked.

“Our city,” Dany said. “By this time tomorrow.”

Maybe the night before a battle was dreamlike, but this, Alysanne knew, was real. And whatever happened, they would face it together.

“This time tomorrow,” Alysanne echoed. “And for all the nights to come.”

***

> “My heart was wandering in the sands  
>  a restless thing, a scorn apart;  
>  Love set his fire in my hands,  
>  I clasp’d the flame unto my heart.”

-Christopher Brennan, _My Heart Was Wandering in the Sands_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flowers:
> 
> Yellow primrose: Eternal love  
> Red rose: True love  
> Moonflower: Dreaming of love  
> Lotus: Rebirth
> 
> And I'm not sure about water lilies, but lilies can symbolize love between women.


	12. All Save Some Fond Few

It was a hot day, even for Meereen. This far from the bay, the wind was less a breeze than a moist puff of air. The Yunkish armies marched up the road towards the city, twenty thousand strong. At the head were the near seventeen thousand sellswords hired by the Yunkai'i, some experienced and battle-hardened and others little more than children thirsting for adventure. 

Following closely behind the sellswords were Yunkai’s new Unsullied. They had been hastily trained and were young, inexperienced, and disorganized. They were controlled by whip-wielding, power-hungry masters, many of whom had little battle experience.

The path to Meereen was surrounded by flat, sandy ground interspersed with sloping dunes. The Yunkish were expecting a siege, and a siege they were prepared for. They were armed with towers, drums, and ladders, and they hoped to overwhelm Meereen’s forces through sheer numbers. They did not know of Maron’s change in allegiance and believed they would be facing eighteen thousand Meereenese soldiers. They were planning to surround the walls of the city, blocking off any chance of escape and overwhelming the queen’s forces.

Motley crew that they were, the soldiers of the Yunkish forces were experiencing a range of emotions from eagerness to trepidation to utter calm.

But when they saw the Meereenese armies spill like ants over the dunes ahead of them, they all shared some degree of unease. 

The queen's forces moved into formation quickly and nimbly, and by the time the Yunkai’i had halted, the Meereenese were firmly in position. There were eight thousand on the left-hand side of the path and eight thousand on the right. Their spear tips glinted like candles in the blazing sun, and from certain angles it looked as though the armies themselves were aflame.

On the right-hand side were Daario Naharis’s Stormcrows and Maron Dayne’s Purple Princes, along with a horde of Unsullied. To the left were yet more Unsullied, along with Ben Plumm’s Second Sons, Simon Strypeback’s Free Brothers, and Mollono Yos Dob’s Stalwart Shields.

The Yunkish were a disparate group, it was true, but they were not incompetent. The commanders ordered the siege equipment abandoned and shouted orders to reposition. The few among them who had horses rode up and down the ranks, issuing brisk commands. The Unsullied went where they were bid, though some of the youngest felt the stirrings of fear in their hearts. All the while, the Meereenese stood still as statues. 

“We’ll split the forces,” said the Tattered Prince, captain of the Windblown, to his fellow captains and commanders, squinting down at them from atop his mount. Whenever he turned his head, the sun glinted off his silver helm with a white flash.

“You don’t give me orders,” said Yurkhaz zo Yunzak, the supreme commander of the Yunkish, in snarling Ghiscari. His bald head was covered in a sheen of sweat and he had a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun, giving him the air of being mid-salute. In reality, Yurkhaz would never salute anyone, and he was finding this war business terribly hot and uncomfortable. The most fighting he had ever seen had been on afternoons spent watching his Unsullied train in the yard of his palace. Sometimes he would order them to kill each other, and when they did, he would laugh and applaud and eat a fig from the tray beside him. 

“We'll order you as we please on the battlefield, old fool,” replied Bloodbeard, leader of the Company of the Cat. “Let’s smash these suckling babes and see how well their mhysa tends to their wounds then!” He let out a booming laugh and his men echoed him, clanging their spears against their shields. The noise echoed across the plains.

Yurkhaz scowled and tapped his silver-tasselled whip against his leg. “That's what they want, buffoon,” he shot back at Bloodbeard. “Wait and let them come to us.”

“He speaks wisely,” said Gylo Rhegan, captain of the Long Lances, but already the soldiers around them were stirring restlessly, eager for a fight. Bloodbeard was walking away, hoisting his longsword over his head, and his men were going with him. The others had no choice but to follow. They all knew that an army should never be at odds with itself. A confused fighter was a dead one.

Unfortunately for the Yunkai’i, this was indeed what the Meereenese had hoped for. On the left-hand side of the path, the soldiers were arranged not in a block as was the custom, but in the shape of a horseshoe with two prongs, one short and one long. The longer prong was composed of the queen’s Unsullied and the Second Sons, and as the Yunkai’i marched to come level with them, they stretched out the longer prong to cut them off from the rest of the field.

By the time the Yunkish commanders realized what was going on, it was too late. The Yunkish Unsullied and their whip-wielding masters were fighting on one side, while the Windblown fought on the other, many with their backs to the queen’s armies. The Tattered Prince, their commander, was the quickest to respond.

“About face!” he cried, his voice rising above the din of screaming soldiers and steel meeting steel, for the tips of the armies were clashing and death was already snaking its way through their ranks. "Bring yourselves round!”

He shouted until he was red in the face, riding up and down the lines and turning the fighters. His orders alerted other commanders, who turned their own soldiers in time to meet the attack. But it was too late to stave off Meereen's plot. The Yunkish were cut off from their Unsullied.

Then the Mother’s Men, led by Marselen, launched their own attack from where they had been hiding in the dunes.

Rolling over the hills like the rushing tide, they overwhelmed the Unsullied boys with deadly precision. It was less a battle than a massacre, but there were few among the Mother’s Men - all of them former slaves themselves - who did not wish to dole out merciful deaths to the children who fought them. It was not lost on them that in another life, they could have been in the place of these boys whose hearts they now tore asunder with their spears. When they had the chance, many of the Mother's Men closed the eyes of the boys they had killed. Some whispered prayers over their bodies, and others merely stared at their still faces, thinking that they could be looking into a mirror. 

The Mother's Men were not so merciful to the masters. The lucky ones ran into the shelter of the dunes, leaving their whips in the blood-stained sand. Many, however, were killed slowly and painfully. No prayers were said for them. They lay face down, their bodies empty, powerless husks. 

Yurkhaz zo Yunzak tried to stand tall as Marselen himself advanced upon him. Both men held their swords aloft. Marselen's was stained deep red, and Yurkhaz's was clean and sharp. The steel glinted, and it would have been threatening if the arm holding it hadn't trembled so violently. Yurkhaz had hidden behind his slaves and his subordinates today as he had all his life, and his sword had yet to taste its first blood. Now there was no one for him to use as a shield. It was him and the open plain.

And he crumbled, for a man such as him had only cruelty, not valour, in his heart.

If Marselen had been a different man, Yurkhaz would have died in agony, in the kind of pain he had always taken pleasure in inflicting on those beneath him. But Marselen would not abandon his principles for a momentary rush of victory. He would not torture a man to death only to experience the heady thrill of the prey when it turns around and becomes the predator.

Marselen was not a predator, nor was he prey. He was a man, and he would not give himself over to vengeance for the sake of the quaking mass of cowardice that stood before him.

 _Yet who_ , he thought as he knocked Yurkhaz's sword from his hand and pierced him through the belly, _can cast judgment upon a slave for retaking his freedom in whatever way he sees fit?_

Yurkhaz's jewelled whip lay on the ground, lifeless. Marselen took it and lifted it high in the air. 

"Unsullied!" he cried in High Valyrian. Nearly everyone in the vicinity turned towards him. Spears and shields lowered. Dying boys used their final reserves of energy to listen to his words. "Yurkhaz is dead. Abandon the battle and save yourselves, or come to us and fight for Queen Daenerys. Now you are free. And those of you who have met your end on this day, know this: in death, you shall have no master." 

With that, Marselen threw the whip from him as hard as he could. It flew through the air in a great arc and landed somewhere out of sight.

As it happened, it landed at Bloodbeard's feet. He looked down with an expression of annoyance and surprise, then looked up again, absentmindedly putting his longsword through a man's throat as he did so. He and his forces were fighting on the right side of the road, surrounded by the Stormcrows and the Purple Princes. They were good fighters, and he was enjoying the sport. In different times, he thought, he might like to drink with some of them.

He squinted, shielding his eyes with a broad hand to look across the dunes. Under the sun's glare everything outside of a ten-foot perimeter looked like an undulating dark mass. He shrugged, kicked the whip aside, and fought on. They were gaining ground against Meereen, though they had yet to meet more than a few of the Meereenese Unsullied. Those bastards were clever fighters, Bloodbeard had to admit. He looked round at some of his own men and thought that perhaps they might be less useless if they'd been trained since they were babes. He turned to lop off someone else's head, the fever of battle so great in his heart that he hardly cared if it was friend or foe...

... and found himself facing a bristling wall of spears.

 _Oh_ , he thought. _Here they are._

The queen's Unsullied were standing with spear tips directed outwards, ready to impale anyone bold enough to attempt to break through their ranks. Some tried and met a bloody, grisly end. But that was not what caught Bloodbeard's attention.

"Oi!" shouted one of his men. "Captain, those are ours!"

For on either side of the queen's Unsullied stood many of the young Unsullied boys who had fought for Yunkai until, it seemed, this very moment. There were substantially fewer of them than they'd had to start with, it was true, but enough remained to make their change of allegiance significant. Bloodbeard felt as if he had been struck dumb, the furor of fighting deserting him rapidly as he tried to make sense of the situation. As it turned out, it was a simple thing.

They were outnumbered, and somewhere in his heart Bloodbeard knew they had already lost.

On the other side of the path, the Free Brothers, the Stalwart Shields, and the Second Sons were suffering heavier losses than their counterparts. Symon Stripeback had been grievously injured and had managed to crawl to the outer edge of the fighting before being borne away by the queen's healers on a stretcher. Many others weren't so lucky. They were being forced away from the road, into the heavy sands of the dunes. Their feet and legs felt like heavy bricks, but the Windblown and the Long Lances seemed to have undying energy. Gylo Rhegan was a wise commander, and knew where to position his strongest fighters and his weakest, and how to urge them on so that they did not overtire themselves too quickly.

The Tattered Prince galloped up and down his lines and urged his men on in High Valyrian, his horse's powerful flanks working as it fought its way through the sands. He had lost his helm some time ago and the hot breeze sent his hair flying as he rode. With a sharp eye, he looked over his forces. His own sword was held at the ready. 

Then he saw them.

Hurtling across the dunes, at a speed that only well-rested, eager fighters can attain, were a thousand soldiers.

They were called Alysanne’s Thousand after the advisor who had advocated for the formation of their regiment. Led by Ser Barristan, who could be trusted to hold them steady until the time was right, their sole purpose was this moment, their primary goal to overtake the Yunkish forces when the queen's armies were overwhelmed. Barristan rode at the front on a charger, and he swept through a row of Yunkish fighters almost before they could blink, his sword cleaving through leather and flesh like a bloody gust of wind. Behind and around him, Alysanne’s Thousand intercepted the Yunkai’i with relative ease, their strong arms holding up well against the exhaustion that had settled deep in the bones of their foes. 

Meanwhile, Bloodbeard was riding across the plains on a horse he had taken from some dead enemy or other, fuelled by anger and an ever-present thirst for victory. Many of his men had been slaughtered after their own Unsullied had betrayed them, and now the Meereenese were pulling yet more soldiers out of thin air. They were like bugs, like an infestation of rats. As soon as you thought you had gotten them all, more took their place.

Snarling, Bloodbeard hoisted his longsword into the air and spurred his horse on towards Barristan, who wheeled his own mount around to face him. Like two knights in a tourney they charged towards each other, only they were not holding wooden sticks and the reward for the victor would not be a crown of roses, but the chance to see another sunrise.

Barristan had fought in hundreds of tourneys. Back in his day, he had been a well-known and well-respected opponent. Even in his old age, he was quick. He was a true knight, an honourable knight.

That was his downfall.

As their horses drew even, Bloodbeard swung his longsword as if to go for Barristan’s head, and when Barristan moved to parry, Bloodbeard swung the sword down again and sliced through the right flank of Barristan’s horse.

The horse screamed and stumbled, throwing Barristan to the ground. The sword flew from his grip and he landed on his back, breathless but reaching for his dagger.

Bloodbeard leapt from his horse, swinging his longsword in a deadly arc.

Barristan was pushing himself to his feet even as Bloodbeard’s sword was rushing towards him.

He had just regained his footing, and was raising his dagger, when Bloodbeard pushed his longsword through Barristan’s throat.

Barristan the Bold took the fatal blow on his feet, but as blood poured from the wound, he fell to his knees.

The sight drew screams of rage and grief from several nearby soldiers, many of whom had known and loved him. Not a half a second later, an arrow pierced Bloodbeard’s own throat, sent from the arrow of Maron the Mighty. But it was too late.

Ser Barristan had fought and died in service to his beloved queen, but he had died nonetheless.

As the fighting slowed, Daario Naharis stepped up beside Maron, his blue hair streaked with dark red blood. Maron was sporting a bloody gash on his forehead, but he was otherwise unhurt. He looked fierce and majestic, large arms and trim waist encased in a deep purple velvet doublet. The putrid stench of death was heavy in the air. Highborn and low, male and female, notorious and unknown, people were fighting and dying all around them.

“Death," Daario mused. "The great equalizer."

"Never mind that horseshit," Maron said. "Did we win?"

***

They were alone together in the presence chamber.

Alysanne sat at the council table, counting the grains in the stone. Daenerys stood at the window, a statue with silvery hair, gazing in the direction of the battle.

She was in agony over having to remain here, over not being able to fly into the air upon her dragons and roast her enemies as Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys had done three hundred years ago. She held herself responsible for every death in her ranks.

Alysanne had reminded her that most rulers did not have dragons and relied on their armies to fight for them. Dany had countered that most rulers fought at the head of those armies. Alysanne hadn’t been able to provide a satisfactory answer to that, and Dany had gone to the window to stand in silence.

In truth, Alysanne wanted nothing more than to go to the armoury, pick up a weapon, and join the battle herself. A litany of self-chastisement was running through her head: for being too weak, for not learning to fight when she was younger, for being too afraid of killing to stand up for her queen's cause. She knew that the only way she could contribute to a battle was as a human shield. 

In her youthful innocence, she had thought that if she did not learn to fight, she would not contribute to the pain in the world. But in truth, all she had been doing was hiding from it.

And here she was, still hiding.

How many people were dying in agony right how, and how many could she have saved had she bothered to learn more than how to hold a sword without dropping it or shoot a bow without sending the arrow through her own foot?

She thought of the friendly faces she had come to know and love, especially Barristan, and imagined new ones that she had never seen. Did they have spouses, children, siblings? Who would they leave behind? Who was waiting for them now, wondering?

She was torturing herself, but perhaps she deserved it. She rubbed the skirt of her gown between her fingers.

“Dany,” she said softly. The word sounded so loud in the heavy silence that Alysanne almost winced.

“Yes?” Dany asked. She didn’t turn around.

In truth, Alysanne didn't have anything to say. She had just wanted to hear Dany’s voice, had wanted to feel less alone.

She got up and went to the window. The sky was perfectly clear, not a cloud in sight. The day marched stubbornly on, heedless of the battle below. Up here in this pyramid, they could pretend that everything was alright in the world.

But neither of them wanted to play make believe.

“No matter what happens, you will always be queen. My queen,” Alysanne said, turning and placing a hand on Dany’s arm. Dany looked at her, fear and hope warring in her eyes.

“We will stay together,” Dany said, taking Alysanne’s hand in her own. “Until the end, whatever it is.” As always, her presence was a steady warmth. She made Alysanne feel clear-headed and present even in her most tumultuous moments, as if she had been drowning and had grasped at the side of a ship, then been hauled aboard.

“Until the end,” Alysanne said, the words as good as an oath.

Behind them, there were running footsteps. They separated, turned, and then reached for each other again. Alysanne's hands were cold, but Dany's were warm. Her skin seemed to hum with life.

Irri entered the room, brows drawn together above her dark eyes. She stopped short when she saw them, gaze darting to their joined hands, but neither made a move to let go.

“Khaleesi,” said Irri, “the city is yours.”

But she wasn't smiling.

***

> “Beneath yon lonely mound – the spot  
>  By all save some fond few forgot –  
>  Lie the true martyrs of the fight  
>  Which strikes for freedom and for right.  
>  Of them, their patriot zeal and pride,  
>  The lofty faith that with them died,  
>  No grateful page shall farther tell  
>  Than that so many bravely fell;  
>  And we can only dimly guess  
>  What worlds of all this world’s distress,  
>  What utter woe, despair, and dearth;  
>  Their fate has brought to many a hearth.  
> 

-Henry Timrod, _The Unknown Dead_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about Barristan! Someone had to be sacrificed, and I figured I would hit where it would hurt the most :(
> 
> Not to be too flippant at this sombre stage, but next chapter will be fluffier and sexier, so stay tuned!


	13. Now Folds the Lily

It had been three weeks since the Battle for Slaver's Bay, though now it was called the Bay of Dragons. 

With most of their commanders dead, the cities of Yunkai and Astapor had been retaken by Daenerys’s forces with little resistance. The remaining leaders were keen to work out a deal with the dragon queen in exchange for their lives, and Dany had granted them some small privileges to keep them content and docile.

It should have felt like victory, but death cast a long shadow over their joy. Ser Barristan had been buried with highest honours in the Westerosi fashion, his cloak draped about his shoulders and his sword in his hand. Alysanne had thought Daenerys’s eyes might have been shining as the services were conducted, but maybe it had only been a trick of the light.

Alysanne herself was determinedly trying not to remember. She didn't want to remember the way Barristan had vouched for her when no one else would, his kindness to her, his gentle, pensive smile. She didn't want to think of the way he had died: alone, in pain, blood staining the sand red...

Try as she might, the memories and the thoughts seemed to inhabit her. They nestled in her heart until her chest ached with their weight. 

She pressed on, playing the role of indomitable advisor, of happy companion to her beloved queen. _We won_ , she said to herself over and over. _Their sacrifice brought us this. Be grateful. Be happy. Be happy._

But sometimes when Alysanne looked at Dany's face, she didn't feel a happy rush of love. She felt terror. One false step and the queen could cast her aside, or grow bored and reach for someone new, someone bolder, someone who could burn Dany's enemies and lay them at her feet. Not a frightened little girl like her. 

Her days began to feel more and more like a mummery. Her smiles felt stiff and frozen on her face. The only time she felt certain in herself was when she was standing at the edge of the dragon pit, looking down into Rhaegal's molten bronze eyes. She felt solid then, and strong. As if her feet were roots reaching deep into the ground and her arms were wings ready to take flight - somehow, both were possible at once. But then she and Dany would leave the pit and the iron doors would close with a crash, and she felt like a gust of wind could blow her away.

One day, when the ache in her chest became too painful to bear and her stomach was lurching violently, Alysanne closed the door to her chambers and lay on her bed for some time, soaking her pillow with her tears. Her sobs were muffled, but they tore at her throat until it burned. She beat at the bedcovers with her fists and kicked them with her feet. She had been pushing the pain down for so long, and now it crashed over her like a tidal wave, soaking every inch of her in delirious agony. She was losing control and she didn't care. Why should she care? What did it matter? Each cry seemed to unleash another piece of the agony she had been carrying, and something within her - some beast that had been lying dormant in her belly - awoke.

Sobs hiccuped in her throat as she sat up slowly, looking round at her room with new eyes. It was such a calm room - tidy and meek. Like her. 

She picked up the water jug by her bed and hurled it, as hard as she could, at the wall. 

It shattered, spraying shards of clear glass all over the floor. Alysanne thought, suddenly, of Doran sitting at the breakfast table back in Dorne, peeling one of his blood oranges and scheming, always scheming, planning her life out for her and never asking her what she thought. He had sent her off to the Boltons...

She threw herself from her bed and ran to her writing desk; she was propelled by an invisible force - by the beast in her belly. She grabbed her ink pot and heaved it at the floor. Black ink stained the round red carpet at her feet - spreading, spreading, the way blood spread across clean white snow...

And she remembered Ramsay, and his foul mouth next to her ear. The way he had touched her as if he owned her. His hand making a purple bracelet around Sansa's wrist.

She looked down at the papers on her desk, neatly stacked. They were ordered by date of issue and needed only the queen's signature. She scooped them up in her arms and threw them into the air. They rained down around her like snowflakes. Some she picked up and tore to pieces, others she stomped on with her dainty silk slippers. 

The beast in her belly was growing hungrier, and it shot out a stream of fire as she thought of that repulsive diplomat - Hizdahr's cousin - who had put his hands all over her. She had smiled at him, tried to placate him. She had gently told him to stop, but he hadn't listened. He hadn't wanted to listen. 

"Listen to this," she said aloud, and she grabbed her desk with both hands and upended it. It made a cacophonous crashing noise as it landed on its side, spilling quills and wax and candles onto the ground. A candlestick rolled across the room and disappeared under the bed 

It wasn't enough. She could burn down this whole pyramid, she realized, and it wouldn't be enough to reach inside herself and pull out all the hurt that was done to her, to fling it into the sky and watch it float away to somewhere where it couldn't touch her anymore. 

The thought was like cool water over the flames of her frenzy. She had reached for one of the gauzy curtains hanging from the window, ready to rip it to shreds, but suddenly she found that the beast in her belly had gone to sleep. In its place was tiredness and a deep, aching sadness.

She let herself fall to her knees, clutching the curtain in her hands. It tore away and landed in her arms, and she held it to her chest as she cried. Her tears were silent as they slipped down her face and dripped off her chin. She was afraid to open her mouth, because she didn't know what would come out. A sob, a moan, or maybe a jet of flame.

Eventually, she pushed herself to her feet. She dusted off her skirt and began to think about how she would clean all this up without someone noticing. Her head felt clearer, and she was so ashamed now that she could hardly stand to look at what she had done. She had never done anything like this before. In her old life, she would never have dreamed of it.

The door began to open. Alysanne went very still and watched as it swung inward. She knew, somehow, who was on the other side. There was only one person who would enter her room without knocking. She was one half fear, the other half hope. _I don't want you to see this_ , part of her screamed, and the other part called, _Look at me. Look at what I'm capable of._

Dany stood on the threshold for a long moment. Looking into her eyes, Alysanne saw many things. Grief, love, longing, fear. But as hard as she searched for disgust, it wasn't there.

Dany took a step forward, and then another. Alysanne didn't move. She wasn't going to think about what happened next. Fear and hope were gone, now, and there was only love left inside her. Painful, raw, intoxicating love. If Dany sent her away, she would still love her. The roots were too deep, now, to pull from the earth.

When Dany reached her, she opened her arms. Alysanne went into them. Dany's soft hair tickled her cheek and the warmth of her skin settled into her weary bones.

"It's alright," Dany whispered. "Everything will be alright."

Alysanne had no tears left. She only nodded into Dany's throat. "I'm sorry," she whispered back. 

"Hush," Dany said softly. "Let me take care of you."

She should have pulled away, should have said that she didn't need anyone to take care of her. It was her job to take care of Dany, not the other way round. But her lips wouldn't form the words. Dany wrapped an arm around her waist and led her to the bed, steering around the broken glass. She settled them so Alysanne's head was resting against her shoulder, Dany's arms around her. It was soothing and wonderful, but underneath, the current of fear still pulsed. How long would this last? How long before Dany's arms, and her love, were no longer on offer?

“Dear heart," Dany murmured into Alysanne's ear, "has someone hurt you?"

Alysanne didn't know what to say. They had, but not recently. Dany had been hurt far worse, and she didn't behave in this way. She had control over her emotions, like Alysanne used to. What was happening to her?

"If anyone has so much as touched you-"

"No, Dany. No one has hurt me. I'm only..." She trailed off again. Only what? Only a liar? Only a lost little girl in a world that allowed so few women a place at the table? Only asking for a love she didn't deserve?

Dany pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Tell me," she whispered.

Once upon a time, Alysanne would have been powerless to resist such a command. But now she found that she would do anything to hold onto Dany, to have her whispering in her ear for many nights to come, even if it meant keeping secrets. 

Because if she told the truth now and felt those arms pulling away, maybe she would simply die of grief.

"It's Ser Barristan," she said. It wasn't a lie, and it wasn't the whole truth. How much of her life was built off of such omissions and cleverly twisted words? "He was like a grandfather to me. He was one of the most loyal men I ever met."

"Yes. He was a true knight - isn't that what they call them in Westeros?"

"Yes. Knights are supposed to be valorous and chivalrous, but sometimes... well, they're more like Maron."

"More often, I suppose, they're nothing special at all," Dany said quietly.

"Barristan was special. And all this death..." She sat up, pulling away from Dany with an emotional strength she hadn't known she possessed. The loss of the warmth made her feel like shivering, but she had to look Dany in the face. "Are there scales somewhere out there, in the universe? How many deaths tip the balance so that we might keep our lives?" She sighed, grasping at the folds of her gown, hand spasming. She was reaching for something - for the words she needed to say. "I believe in this, Dany. I believe in us. But I feel as if we..." She took a deep breath. "As if we're drawing our own breaths from the blood spilled on that battlefield."

Dany gently took Alysanne's hand and extricated it from the folds of her skirt. Then slowly, almost reverently, she brought it to her lips and pressed a gentle, courtly kiss to Alysanne's fingers. Even at this slight touch Alysanne felt some of the agitation drain from her, and the ache in her chest dissipated. Nevertheless, she was no less convinced of her own words.

"Dearest," Dany said, holding Alysanne's hand in her lap, "listen to me. The Yunkish brought it upon themselves. They were the ones who enslaved their subjects, who brutalized children, who raped women and hoarded wealth and left hardly a coin for their people. Do not give them the gift of your pity. And our soldiers died for something they believed in - they fought for freedom, for themselves and for the people all along the Bay. I know you have a good and gentle heart, but there are many whose hearts are black with rot - those who will threaten what peace we build. And they must be faced with fire and blood."

Alysanne nodded. She wanted to protest, wanted to deny that it was true. Why couldn't everyone be good? she thought childishly. But they never would be, she knew. _Fire and blood_. The words sent a jolt of heat down her spine. She thought of a little girl in the courtyard of Sunspear, dubiously holding a tiny wooden sword at arm's length. _I don't want to hurt anyone_ , she had said. 

And how many people had hurt that little girl since? How many other little children had been hurt, how many families had been destroyed, while she had sat back in comfort?

"Fire and blood," Alysanne whispered.

They were both quiet, Dany still holding Alysanne's hand in her lap, running her thumbs along the smooth skin. "And this is why you destroyed your room?" Dany finally said.

Alysanne closed her eyes. "I'll replace everything," she said weakly.

Dany huffed out something like a chuckle, and she shook her head. "No, dearest. You won't be replacing anything. I only want to know why."

"I feel like I don't know who I am anymore," Alysanne blurted out before she could stop herself. It was like Dany had pulled the words from her.

"What has changed?"

"When I was a child, I..." 

_Stop talking._

"My mother..."

_Tell her everything._

"Dany, I'm not..."

_You'll lose it all._

"I never wanted to..."

_It doesn't matter._

"I'm not a Bolton."

She stopped, waiting for the storm to break. She waited for tears, shouting, anything. But, to her utter amazement, Dany leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to the side of her head. She wrapped her arms around Alysanne again.

"I know, darling. You're nothing like them. You're a Dayne."

No. A tide of despair swelled within her. She opened her mouth to correct Dany, to explain. But the feeling of Dany's lips on her head had been so intoxicating, and her warm arms were so solid and grounding. Her courage left her, and then her will.

She turned her head into Dany's neck, breathed in the warm, spicy scent of her, and closed her eyes.

***

Two weeks later, Alysanne stood at the queen’s side in the audience chamber.

She had said nothing more of her parentage over the last fortnight - not while she and Dany dined together or walked together or sat together, kissing and touching but never going quite as far as they could, both hold back from passing that point of no return. Alysanne's bloodline seemed less important with every day that passed. What did a name matter, in the end? She knew who she was, and so did Dany. Indeed, Dany saw her more clearly than perhaps anyone ever had.

They had just finished with a petitioner. She was the daughter of a recently deceased lemon farmer, and the farm had passed to her upon her father’s death. Her husband was attempting to wrest control of the farm from her, as old Meereenese law prevented married women from owning property. While the law was now considered somewhat archaic, it was still in practice in some parts of the city and its outlying regions. Dany had given the woman a written statement declaring her the rightful owner of the farm, and had promised to pass a new law giving married women categorical rights and ownership over property.

“It seems women are robbed of their birthrights in all corners of the world,” Dany muttered to Alysanne.

“You’re doing your part to remedy that,” Alysanne replied, smiling at the woman's retreating form. She loved open court. Seeing so many of the people of Meereen and hearing their stories, finding solutions to their problems - it was a tiny piece of something good in a world that seemed more hostile than ever. And it mattered.

“One person, even a queen, cannot undo centuries of subjugation,” Dany said. “Even you have had your birthright ripped from you.”

For a moment Alysanne did not know what Dany was talking about, but thankfully she caught on quickly. “I do not want House Bolton,” she assured Dany. “This is where I belong.”

Dany did not look entirely convinced, but she smiled fondly at Alysanne all the same before remembering herself and settling back onto her bench, eyes fixed on the doors to the hall. Grey Worm, standing at Dany’s other side, was not looking at them. Alysanne was sure he saw far more than he let on, but he was too discrete to say anything.

“Send the next one in,” Dany said.

A moment later, the doors opened and Alysanne’s heart fell into the pit of her stomach.

Quentyn Martell and Nymeria Sand were entering the audience hall.

Quentyn looked taller than when she had last seen him, and more muscular. His olive skin was darker, as if he had spent time in the sun. His face, however, was still plain and broad. Next to him, Nymeria looked beautiful as always, with her dark hair swept back into a braid and her eyes filled with their usual spark of amusement, as if everything around her existed only for her entertainment.

Nymeria recognized her instantly, and those dark eyes danced with mirth. Perhaps they had known she was here all along. Alysanne felt cold with fear and paralyzed with uncertainty, and it was with a valiant effort that she kept her face still and impassive. It seemed that everything she had tried to forget about Dorne had swept into the room alongside them.

Part of her wanted to go on her knees before Daenerys and explain everything right then, and the other wanted to wait and see what happened, and keep her cards close to her chest as she had always been taught.

Before she could come to a decision, it was made for her. Quentyn was speaking.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice sounding solemn as ever. “I am Quentyn Martell, son of Doran Martell and heir to Sunspear. This is my cousin, Nymeria Sand. She is the natural daughter of Prince Oberyn, my uncle.” Dany shifted, clearly recognizing the names, and shot Alysanne a questioning look.

Alysanne summoned a smile. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but I was so surprised I was struck dumb for moment.” She forced a laugh out of her mouth, and it left a bitter taste in its wake.

“To see my foster sister here is a surprise for us as well, Your Grace,” Quentyn said, looking a little anxious. “But a welcome one.” He inclined his head to Alysanne.

 _You're lying_ , she thought. _You knew I was here._

“What a coincidence,” Dany said, in a tone that suggested she thought it no coincidence at all.

“Your Grace, if I may,” Nymeria said, voice warm and pleasant. “We had heard rumours of Aly’s being everywhere from the Iron Islands to Asshai. Some sailors said she was serving the dragon queen, and here we have the truth of it. I look forward to catching up later, cousin." She directed the last part to Alysanne, who was growing more and more distressed by the minute. They had always called her "cousin", she thought. It had made her feel like family, when she was a child. Now Nymeria said it almost like a threat.

"So do I, Nym," she replied, and was pleased that her voice sounded strong and sure.

Dany narrowed her eyes at the exchange, and when she spoke she adopted the light, airy tone she always used with visitors she didn't trust when she wanted them to underestimate her. “Ah, I see. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I come at my father’s command, Your Grace,” said Quentyn. “Prince Doran wishes to support your claim to the Iron Throne through an alliance. Specifically, through marriage.”

“Marriage,” Dany replied flatly. "Between...?

“Your Grace and myself,” Quentyn said quietly. He sounded as if he were offering the queen a spoiled fruit. Despite her terror, Alysanne felt badly for him. Quentyn had always been more sweet than clever. Arianne had been the one with a mind for politics.

Nymeria intervened again. “Your Grace, Doran Martell offers you financial and military aid from Dorne in exchange for a union between yourself and Prince Quentyn. When Your Grace comes to Westeros to take back the Iron Throne, all the might of Dorne will be behind you. We have letters from Doran Martell ensuring Your Grace of our true intent.”

Daenerys had no choice but to accept. The thought wrenched the breath from Alysanne's lungs, even as a stubborn, pragmatic part of her understood that Dany could not throw this chance away. In order to win the throne, Dany the lover and Daenerys Stormborn the queen must be separate entities. The whims of the lover must never interfere with the choices of the queen. But Alysanne, who served the queen and loved the woman, felt as though she was being torn in half. Whatever future they might have built was going to crumble, and this was the first chip in the stone. 

Nymeria was not finished. “In fact, Your Grace, we have something for you that you may wish to see.”

“What is it?” Dany asked.

From the pocket of his leather jerkin, Quentyn produced a scroll tied with a blue ribbon. It looked torn and dirty, probably from sitting in Quentyn’s pocket as it made its way across the world.

Another spasm of fear seized Alysanne, but she tamped it down. If they had wanted to reveal her secret, they would have done so already. Yet how much longer could they play this game?

Dany nodded to one of her Unsullied, who took the letter from Quentyn and brought it to her. She untied the ribbon deftly and unrolled it. As she looked down, Alysanne looked up at their visitors. Quentyn was watching Dany with undisguised hope, but Nymeria was watching Alysanne. When the two locked eyes, Nymeria smiled lazily, as if she were lounging in her private gardens instead of standing before one of the most formidable rulers in the world. _I have more power than you_ , the smile seemed to say.

Dany finished reading and looked up, her face troubled.

“What does it say, Your Grace?” Alysanne asked, unable to stand the suspense any longer.

“It is a pact, signed fifteen years ago in Braavos between Prince Oberyn and Ser Willem Darry, the protector of myself and my brother. It promises marriage between Arianne Martell and my brother Viserys, in exchange for Dorne’s help in overthrowing the usurper Robert Baratheon.”

Doran’s scheming was never-ending, it seemed. How could he have done such a thing? He would have given away his daughter - brave, clever Arianne - without her knowledge or consent. For Alysanne did not doubt that Arianne hadn’t known. She had spoken often of what ruling Dorne would be like, and how she would do things when she was its princess regnant.

“Your Grace, I would honour this pact now, though both your brother and my sister have passed on to the keeping of the Seven. As your humble subject, I ask for your hand in marriage. I would stand beside you and fight for you, if you would allow me. But I bring not only my own support,” Quentyn added quickly. “Dorne is fifty thousand strong.”

“You make me a great offer, Prince Quentyn, and I thank you,” Dany said. “I will think on your words. I am not insensible of what a great gift your father’s support would be, and I hope you will be so generous as to give me the chance to consider the offer. Be assured that you have my friendship and all your wants and needs will be attended to during your stay here.”

What did that mean? Was Dany going to refuse? The thought made Alysanne feel ill, though with horror or joy Alysanne couldn't have said. She wanted to turn and ask Dany what she thought she was doing, but she could hardly question her in front of the whole court.

Quentyn looked worried, and even Nymeria seemed a little caught off guard. “Of course, Your Grace,” Quentyn said. “We are at your service.”

***

Once Nymeria and Quentyn had been led away to rooms on the thirty-second floor - just below Dany’s own - Dany had departed for a meeting with some of her sellsword captains and Alysanne had not had the chance to speak to her. She had hastened back to her own rooms lest she run into Nymeria and Quentyn and had been standing on her balcony ever since, drinking in the salty sea air and breathing deeply, trying to calm her dizziness.

She had duties to attend to, but she could settle to none of them. When she thought of writing at her desk, she felt as if she would scream. She needed to go to Dany and speak to her.

Finally, as the sun began to set, she could stand it no longer.

She climbed the steps to the thirty-third level at almost a run, having become far more athletic over the course of these months of climbing. Usually she delighted in all the potted flowers and vines that decorated the steps, but tonight she hardly noticed them. She had never gone to Dany’s chambers without a summons, but now she had little choice.

She knocked on the door, hoping that Dany was there and that she was not intruding on anything. “It’s me,” she said through the wood. To her relief, the queen called, “Come in.”

Alysanne pushed the door open and found Dany sitting at her own writing desk. She knew at first glance that Dany was looking at the marriage pact. She looked up when Alysanne came in and set the scroll on the table in front of her. Alysanne shut the door quietly behind her.

There were a million questions on the tip of Alysanne's tongue, but when she saw the way Dany's eyebrows were drawn down and the distress in her eyes, what came out of her mouth was, "Are you alright?"

Dany nodded, sighing as she leaned back in her chair. "I wanted to summon you earlier so we could speak, but I didn't know how to..." She trailed off. 

"Dany," Alysanne said quietly, and padded across the room towards her. She knelt beside her and took her hand, and Dany looked surprised.

"Darling, you don't ever need to kneel - "

"It's alright," Alysanne said, squeezing Dany's hands in her own. "I understand if you need to accept the marriage. I'll never leave your side, sweetheart. You're my queen, whomever you marry."

Dany looked down at her for a long moment, eyes filled with warmth. Then Dany turned her hands over so she was holding Alysanne's palms in her own, and, standing, tugged Alysanne to her feet.

"I was going to say," Dany said, "that I couldn't think of how to tell you that I was going to refuse, and potentially lose Dorne's support in the bargain." 

Alysanne's heart seemed to stutter. Relief flooded through her, and with it, guilt. "Dany, please tell me you aren't doing this just for me." Even to her own ears, her voice sounded shaky. "I couldn't bear it if I got in your way of everything you've wanted since you were a girl."

Dany leaned forward and rested their foreheads together, a familiar gesture that brought them both comfort. "All I've wanted since I was a girl," she whispered, "was to find my place in the world. And I've found it with you. I will sit the Iron Throne, but I'll do it with you by my side."

Alysanne's breath trembled as she exhaled. It took a great deal of effort to force the words past the lump in her throat. "What if this is our only chance? To save Westeros from being ripped to shreds?"

Dany pulled back and rested firm hands on Alysanne's face, looking into her eyes. Her gaze made Alysanne feel as helpless as a newborn kitten. 

“I led my people across the Red Waste without a guide. I walked into a fire and when it burnt away there were three baby dragons - the first in generations - sitting on my shoulders. I smashed the shackles of the Unsullied and united armies strong enough to conquer three of the most powerful cities in Essos." She leaned forward so their lips were almost touching. When she spoke, Alysanne could feel puffs of air against her lips. "You escaped one of the most heavily guarded castles in the world, you crossed the narrow sea on your own, and you've a better head for strategy than many of my own commanders. I refuse to believe that our only chance to take the Iron Throne rests upon my marriage to a little boy." 

Alysanne felt a little breathless, but Dany wasn't finished.

"Am I meant to lay with him as a wife, to let him stand by my side, while you remain in the background? You, who are beloved of my dragons and have crossed half the world alone to stand at my side? Quentyn Martell is a child. You are a woman. Why would I take him when I can have you?”

Warmth rushed through Alysanne’s body. A tingling feeling shot through her lower belly.

"Perhaps you could marry me, then." She said it half in jest, but the words still seemed to come from a long way off, as if someone else had said them. Someone bolder and braver. 

Like someone who upturned desks and threw papers and who had, as Dany said, crossed half the world on her own.

“Maybe I will marry you," Dany said, eyes fierce. "Aegon the Conqueror had two queens, after all. Why can I not have a queen consort of my own?”

Unable to stand it any longer, Alysanne pressed their lips together, revelling in the surge of joy and adoration and _right_ that she felt whenever they embraced.

When they broke apart, Alysanne whispered, “There are no words for what you are to me. But I can say that I love you, and hope it is enough.”

“ _Perzys hen ñuha prūmia_ ,” Dany said softly. Alysanne did not know what it meant, but the way Dany's tongue curled around the words made her heart race. “It is enough.”

Their lips met again, and this time there was more heat, more fire. Dany’s kisses rendered Alysanne as helpless as if she were caught up in a current, yet she was not trying to escape but swimming deeper into its hold, longing to be swept away to where the sea met the fiery sun.

Dany tugged Alysanne towards the bed. They fell onto it together, Dany on top. Then, breathless, Dany pulled away. Her lips and cheeks were rosy, her eyes blazing.

“If you do not want this, I beg you to tell me,” Dany said.

“I want to be with you,” Alysanne said, reaching up to touch Dany’s cheek. She looked so soft in the light of the candles, silver-gold hair spilling across her shoulders, but there was an undeniable raw power about her. Alysanne’s whole body ached with desire for her.

Still, Dany did not move. “You are certain? I may be the queen, but you need not bow to my wishes in this.”

Alysanne brushed a lock of hair off of Dany's forehead. “My wish is for us to be together in every sense, if you will have me.”

Dany’s eyes held fierce, naked desire. “I will have you indeed,” she said.

She bent her head to press a kiss to Alysanne's skin at the spot between her shoulder and her neck. Alysanne gasped and a moan slipped past her lips as her fingers clutched the silken bedcovers. She reached for Dany and clasped her about the waist, running her hands down towards her hips and holding her firmly, making soft little sounds as Dany kissed her, lips pressing against her sensitive skin. When she pulled away, Alysanne was breathing heavily.

"Let's get rid of this, shall we?" Dany asked, tugging at the knot tying Alysanne's pale blue tokar about her shoulders. Alysanne nodded, throat so thick with arousal she couldn't speak. Dany undid the knot with dextrous fingers and it came loose. She gently pulled it away, baring Alysanne's chest.

"Beautiful," she said simply, and then she was leaning in again and Alysanne had her head back, sighing in pleasure as Dany did things with her tongue that had her writhing. 

"Wait," Alysanne finally managed to gasp, and Dany drew back. Alysanne kissed her briefly, then pulled away, gesturing at Dany's tokar. "May I...?"

Dany grinned and nodded, and she looked so exquisite in the low golden candlelight that she seemed to possess an otherworldly glow, yet so happy and free that it seemed she had dropped the mantle of queen for now and inhabited the simple, unadulterated joy of a woman in bed with the person she loved. When Alysanne looked into her eyes she felt a tug in her gut, like some invisible hook was drawing them together.

She untied Dany's tokar and let it fall. She looked at Dany's breasts for a moment, soft and rosy and full, and she was just as awed by them as the rest of her. She imagined what they would feel like under her mouth. Well, she supposed, she didn't have to imagine. Gently, laughing breathlessly, she rolled the Queen of Meereen over onto her back.

Soon she had Dany moaning softly underneath her, every sound she made filling Alysanne with a soft, warm sense of triumph. Dany's hands caressed her softly, and between her legs there was a wonderful, mounting pressure that increased until she could no longer ignore it. 

Dany seemed to be thinking along the same lines, and soon both women were slipping out of their dresses, giggling and clutching each other as their feet tangled in the sheets. Alysanne held onto Dany's shoulder for balance as she raised herself up on one foot to kick her tokar off the side of the bed, and when she lost her balance they both went tumbling onto the mattress. 

"Seven hells," Alysanne swore, but she couldn't help laughing. "That's not very romantic."

Dany snorted. "It's good enough for me," she said sweetly, and rolled on top of Alysanne to kiss her again. Her hand travelled down Alysanne's lower belly and then came to settle gently between her legs. Even the slight pressure had Alysanne's hips rolling and she clutched at Dany's shoulders, her breath coming in short gasps.

"Is this alright?" Dany asked. 

"Gods, _yes_. Wait a moment, let me - " With some maneuvering, they sat up until they were facing each other, chests touching, mouths not an inch apart. Alysanne felt a surge of happiness and safety. This was where she belonged. 

"I love you," she said into Dany's mouth.

"I love you," Dany replied, her smile warm and tender. It was the look Alysanne only ever saw when it was just the two of them. Dany only smiled like that for her. And when she looked at Alysanne like that, Alysanne felt like she was the only woman in the world. Maybe she didn't deserve it, but it made her deliriously happy all the same.

She reached forward, drawing her hand up over Dany's soft thigh and settling between her legs. Dany's breath hitched and her free hand came to settle on Alysanne's lower back, tracing tantalizing, gentle patterns over the skin. Alysanne rested the side of her head against the queen's, and they were cheek to cheek as each brought waves of pleasure to the other. They were warm and breathless, bound together in ecstasy. The heat between Alysanne’s legs was as sweet as a kiss and as tender as a bruise.

There was no sound in the world except their breaths, no heat in the world but that which they created at their joining. It felt as if all were completely still around them and they were the only thing moving.

Alysanne was reaching her peak, and she knew Dany was too. Her movements were less precise, her fingers no longer gentle and purposeful, but spasming and unrelenting as they stroked her again and again. Alysanne was hardly aware of the sounds she was making, but she could hear Dany's soft gasps and feel Dany's wetness and her warm thighs pressing against her hand, and finally she went over the edge. Alysanne threw her head back in elation as the pressure between her legs released and rushed from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, filling her with euphoria. As she rocked her hips, riding out the swells of bliss, she could not stop herself from leaning down and pressing a kiss to Dany's neck. She felt Dany's thighs tighten around her hand and she gasped and cried out into Alysanne's ear, and they held each other tightly until the warmth of their arousal had dissipated and left, in its place, deep contentment.

Afterward, they lay side by side in Dany’s bed, naked and sweaty and sated and wrapped up in each other. They held each other not as a queen and her advisor, nor even as a queen and a noble lady. They were two women, divested of titles and raiment, opening their hearts to one another. They knew not what awaited them, tomorrow or a year from then, but for once it did not matter. Now they thought of little else but the words they whispered into the quiet of the night, the moon and stars high above them. They were together, and they were happy.

***

> “Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,  
>  And all thy heart lies open unto me.  
>  Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves  
>  A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
> 
> Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,  
>  And slips into the bosom of the lake:  
>  So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip  
>  Into my bosom and be lost in me.”

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson, _Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perzys hen ñuha prūmia: Flame of my heart
> 
> This went through quite the rounds of edits! I basically kept the bones but rewrote most of the substance. It turned out angstier, sexier, and more raw, so hopefully that's to your liking.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	14. All That We See or Seem

The next morning, Alysanne woke with the rise of the sun. When she turned her head, Dany's face was inches from her own. Her silver-gold hair tickled Alysanne's cheek, and she reached out careful fingers to touch the strands. They ran through her hands like water - like spun gold. _Playing with the hair of a queen_ , Alysanne thought. _Wonders never cease_.

The night before was coming back to her in vibrant snippets of colour and sound. Dany's warm lips against her own, the softness of her thighs, the things they had whispered in the dark. Alysanne looked at Dany's sleeping face, unguarded and quiet, and couldn't help but wonder if everything would be the same when she woke.

 _How could it not be_? she thought as she pressed her hand over Dany's where it lay against the sheets. The warmth grounded her, as Dany's closeness always did. She leaned over and pressed a feather-light, lingering kiss to Dany's jaw. She didn't stir, but remained peaceful and still. She seemed almost frozen in time, as if she would never age beyond this moment. _Are you ever so peaceful when you're awake_? Alysanne wondered as she watched the rise and fall of Dany's chest. She would have lifted her arms and held back the sun if it meant Dany might sleep for a few more hours and maintain this illusion of serenity. 

Reluctantly, Alysanne slipped out of the bed, gathering her clothes and dressing hastily as the sky lightened. She could not take her eyes from Dany's face. Quietly, her heart sang, _She's mine, she's mine, I'm hers, I'm hers_.

The clouds above the ocean, visible through the eastern windows, were stained red. There was an old rhyme back in Dorne that sailors and ship captains always recited: "Red sky at night, the ship's set aright. Red sky at morn, on comes the storm."

Alysanne finished dressing and turned from the window, feeling, for a moment, oddly discomfited. The warm glow in her chest was inexplicably replaced by the cold, heavy weight of dread. 

Determinedly she turned her mind back to the night before, trying to remember every moment, every caress. As she walked through the corridor towards the steps leading to the lower floor, she wondered if she could visit Dany again tonight and they could -

"What are you doing here?"

Too busy watching her own feet and thinking about the curve of Dany's calves, Alysanne hadn't noticed Irri climbing the stairs. Her lips were quirked in amusement.

“Never mind,” Irri continued, still smiling. She climbed until she and Alysanne stood on the same step. “I think I know.” She looked meaningfully at the queen’s door. “The _khaleesi_ loves you well.”

“I think you're mistaken,” Alysanne began, but Irri held up a hand.

“Do not fear,” Irri said. “The _khaleesi_ ’s secrets are my secrets.”

Alysanne was relieved. “You do not disapprove?”

“Of love? Of the union of two hearts, brought together under the stars beneath the all-seeing gaze of the gods? It is not for me to disapprove of such a thing. It is the greatest power in the world. This is known.”

“It is,” Alysanne said. There was a new flower blossoming in her heart with Irri's words: hope. If Irri could accept what Alysanne and Dany had between them, maybe the rest of the world could too. It was probably a foolish thing to think, but foolishness had never seemed such a wonderful thing as it did in that moment. “Thank you, Irri.”

Irri laughed softly. “I haven't given you anything.”

“Your friendship. Time and time again. And you've never once asked for anything in return.”

Irri's face grew serious. "You are one of our own now.” And she took Alysanne's hand, holding it firmly. Her grip was strong and self-assured, developed through years of riding over the open plains of the Dothraki sea. "The blood of my blood. We ask for nothing but loyalty."

Finding words was too difficult this early in the morning, so Alysanne leaned forward and hugged her. 

Irri returned the gesture readily, and Alysanne realized that she loved her. Not in the way she loved Dany, or the way she had loved Arianne, but love in the way that friends love - the soft flicker of a candle, gentle, enduring, casting light over a dark wall long after fiercer, brighter flames have been absorbed into ash. 

When they parted, Irri said, "I must go wake the _khaleesi_ now. That Westerosi prince has been caught sneaking about the palace."

Then that pit of dread settled back into Alysanne's stomach. 

"What do you mean?"

"He was in the lower levels around the dragon pits, hiding from the guards. Grey Worm has bid me ask the queen what we should do with him."

Fighting back the urge to sprint to the dragon pit and check on Rhaegal and Viserion herself, Alysanne asked, "Surely he didn't get into the pit?"

Irri looked grim. "No. He only tried."

“Where is his cousin?” If Quentyn was making mischief, surely Nymeria would not be far behind. In all likelihood, she was the instigator.

"You know as much as I do," Irri said.

“I'll go and look for her while you wake Da – the queen,” Alysanne said, and took off down the stairs to the thirty-second floor.

This floor was almost as grand as Dany’s, with a large steaming pool and an orange tree, ripe with fruit, growing in the antechamber. All the rooms looked empty, and Alysanne peered suspiciously about at the potted plants and marble statues decorating the floor. 

_Hide and go seek, Aly_ , she remembered Nymeria saying when they were children. _I'll hide, you count to ten. If you can find me in an hour I'll give you my dessert_.

Alysanne had never found her. Not once.

There was a hand on her arm.

She turned, striking out clumsily, but her hand connected with nothing but air. Nymeria had dodged, nimble as a cat.

“Peace, dear Alysanne,” Nymeria laughed, catching Alysanne's hand and squeezing it between her own. “I have not come to assassinate you.”

“Why are you here?” Alysanne asked, pulling out of Nymeria’s grip with her heart still racing. She drew herself up taller, trying to fill her voice with even a bit of confidence. “What do you want with the queen?”

Nymeria leaned back and folded her arms, looking appraising and not the least bit intimidated. “I would have thought that was made clear enough yesterday. Although the dragon queen doesn’t seem as eager as I'd hoped to marry my sweet little cousin.

"Even less so when she hears about Quentyn's morning stroll," Alysanne volleyed back.

Nymeria's eyes flashed with irritation. "So they caught him, did they? The stupid little boy. Probably stopped to say good morning to a guard or two. What a shame that he's the one we're left with. Arianne might have been the one who died, but those of us left behind to clean up the mess are all worse off, don't you think?" 

Alysanne's jaw tightened. "You know she loved Dorne. She would have given anything for her people." She clenched her fists at her side, the sense of betrayal sweeping through her as it had in the throne room when the marriage contract had been read. "And Doran would have had her sitting at Viserys's feet, far from everything she knew."

Nymeria's smile sliced across her face like a blade. "Unfair, isn't it? Ah, Doran is a tricky one, it's true. And speaking of him, I am not only here to arrange a union between our beloved future Prince of Dorne and your cherished Queen of Meereen.” She reached into the deep pocket of her brown jerkin and pulled out a letter bearing Prince Doran's seal. “I have come to command your return to Dorne with me."

Alysanne had known that this would happen, but it still struck her like a blow. She took the letter, willing her hands not to shake. She did not need to open it to know what it said. Nor, she realized with no small amount of surprise, did she want to. She wasn't sure she cared what Doran had to say anymore.

“I'm not coming back,” she said. “My place is here. I have been the queen’s advisor for months.”

“Yes,” Nymeria agreed, flicking an imaginary speck of dust off her trousers. “It has pleased nuncle to let you play your little game here in Meereen. You always were a dreamer. But you have duties, Alysanne." Her eyes hardened. "Unless you've forgotten where you come from.”

“Never."

“But Her Grace doesn't know your full story, does she?” Nymeria asked. “If I thought you capable of nefarious plotting, I would say you had your own designs in mind.” She laughed at the look of horror on Alysanne’s face. “There, there, I know your heart for a loyal one, if foolish. What would the queen say if she knew who you were?”

“She would understand,” Alysanne said, not quite believing it.

"Would she," Nymeria hummed quietly, tilting her head and tapping the silver dagger at her hip. "I don't think our queen likes competition."

"I'm not her competition," Alysanne said. "I'm her - " She stopped. Her what? Lover, adviser, friend - those words were too small for them. "I'm loyal to her. And if you're loyal too, we don't have to be on opposing sides. We both want Daenerys on the throne, don't we?" 

“Oh, Alysanne,” Nymeria sighed. “Sweet Aly. Never one for conflict, were you? Nuncle always liked that about you. That, and how easily led you are.” Alysanne flushed. This was true, and they both knew it. “Nuncle doesn't want to put all his eggs in one basket, and you are a precious egg indeed. Why do you think he kept Daenerys a secret from you in the first place? He's got more than one horse in this race. Admittedly you're not his first pick, but you'll do should - gods forbid, of course - anything happen to Daenerys." She stepped closer. Alysanne wanted to lean away, but she held her ground. “I hear the queen takes you to visit her dragons. Tell me, Alysanne, have you ever heard of the fire at Summerhall?”

Confusion broke through Alysanne’s mounting dismay. Heard of it? Of course she had heard of it – everyone had. King Aegon V had burnt down Summerhall Castle trying to hatch new dragon eggs, killing his son and several others in the process. “What does that have to do with any of this?” she asked.

“Much and more,” Nymeria said. “Perhaps Doran will tell you of it, when you return with me.”

“Doran tells me nothing,” Alysanne said. “He has lied to me my whole life.”

“Oh, won’t you grow up?” Nymeria said with a sigh. “All children are raised on lies and mother’s milk. The truth is far too dangerous.”

“You seem to know it well."

Nymeria smiled as if pleased with herself. “Well, even the greatest and most closely guarded rulers must trust someone. And as it turns out, my uncle and I have similar outlooks on life.” She stroked her dagger again.

Alysanne could scarce imagine two people more dissimilar than Nymeria Sand and Doran Martell, but clearly she was poorly informed. What was she missing? What was this about Summerhall? She pushed her uncertainty aside and lifted her chin. “I will not be returning with you. I do not want any part of Doran’s schemes. I will tell the queen the truth on my own, and I will decide my own destiny.”

“No,” Nymeria said, shaking her head. “No, you will not. Alysanne, you are a little slow, so let me make this simple for you.” She stepped forward again so she and Alysanne were almost nose to nose, but still Alysanne did not step back. “If you do not come back with me, I will paint the queen a picture of you, and it will be most unflattering. You make the choice, or I make it for you.”

“That is no choice at all."

Nymeria shot her a scornful look. “You stopped having the same choices as the rest of us the day Ashara Dayne wrapped you in your swaddling clothes and shipped you off to Dorne. ”

“If that is how Doran sees it, very well,” Alysanne said. “I regret it more than I can say, for he is the only father I have ever known. But you cannot frighten me into compliance.” She sounded brave, but her stomach was roiling. Nymeria was threatening to rip away all she held dear here in Meereen, to upend what she and Dany were building. And, in the end, she was helpless to stop it. Yet part of her knew that she had brought this on herself. She had mounted a galloping destrier, and now the ride was almost at an end. She would have to dismount at some point, and the fall would be brutal, for this was a horse that never tired.

There were pounding footsteps on the stairs and a group of Unsullied entered the room, Grey Worm in the lead.

“Lady Nymeria,” Grey Worm said, looking none too pleased, “the queen summons you to her presence.”

Nymeria ignored him. "You've made your choice, then, cousin?" 

Such a simple question as that shouldn't have made Alysanne feel as though she were holding the world in the palm of her hand. 

"Yes."

Nymeria nodded once, eyes unreadable. She turned and left, flanked by two Unsullied.

Alysanne followed.

***

Dany was furious.

She had been shaken awake by Irri, and she had turned her head to the space where Alysanne had slept only to find it cold and empty. For a horrible moment she wondered if she had dreamt it all. But there was a tiny dip on the pillow where Alysanne's head had lain, and her scent still lingered in the sheets. Dany's skin still tingled where Alysanne had touched it. Not a dream, then.

Irri's next words had pulled her away from her memories with unwelcome abruptness. The little frog-faced prince had been found sneaking about the lower levels and Alysanne had gone off to find his cousin. When she had heard this, Dany had hurriedly summoned the Unsullied to search for them. She hardly knew this Nymeria Sand, but something deep in her gut did not want Alysanne alone with her.

When Alysanne had arrived in the throne room, looking weary but well, Dany's fingers had uncurled from where her fists had been clenched in her lap.

She did not trust either of the Martell envoys, but in the end she decided not to send them back to Dorne. If they were planning something, keeping them close might bring their plot to light. She told them in no uncertain terms that they were to remain in the upper levels, and under no circumstances to approach the pit.

Once all save Alysanne had been dismissed, Dany found herself in a frustrated and irritable mood. The ecstasy of the night before had been rudely interrupted, and she and Alysanne had been thrust back into the harsh light of day before either of them were ready.

Alysanne had been standing still as stone beside her, but as soon as they were alone, she grabbed Dany’s hand in both of hers. Looking into her eyes, Dany was surprised and a little perturbed to see her gaze fierce with some emotion Dany could not quite name.

“What is it?” Dany asked, standing so they could be eye to eye. “What happened? You did well to find Nymeria. Gods know where she –”

“We should go and see the dragons,” Alysanne interrupted. Her voice was shaking. “Please. We haven’t seen them in so long. All of this, with Quentyn, it – I fear for them.”

“Alysanne, what is going on?” Dany said, the words coming out more harshly than she had intended. “What did Nymeria say to you?”

Alysanne looked away, taking a deep breath. “She said some cruel things, most of which were true.”

Dany opened her mouth to deny that anything said cruelly to Alysanne could possibly be true, but Alysanne shook her head. “Dany, please. I need to see them. I’ll explain once we’re there.”

Dany could not bring herself to deny her. She understood that longing for the dragons - that deep, insatiable need - better than anyone. She was their mother, after all. “Very well,” she said. “Come.”

Hands brushing as they walked, they made their way down to the dragon pit. Dany’s belly felt tight and hot with agitation. She wanted to hold Alysanne as she had last night, to feel so close to her that she did not know where she ended and Alysanne began. But now they seemed an ocean apart.

The dragon pit was a dismal place now, bearing signs of the dragons’ repeated attempts at escape. The heavy doors were dinted and there were burn marks around the outer edges. The last time they had visited, Rhaegal had been trying to burn off his chains. Dany wondered if he had yet succeeded.

When they entered, she saw that he had.

He was on the ceiling, clinging to the rafters, jade green wings folded about him. Viserion was still on the ground, cream scales stark and almost glowing in the darkness. Both dragons roared when the two women walked in, and the sound was near-deafening. Dany did not flinch, and neither did Alysanne.

Alysanne gazed up at Rhaegal, wearing the same expression she always wore in the presence of the dragons. One of wonder, longing, and grief.

“What happened this morning?” Dany asked quietly once the roars had subsided.

Alysanne sighed heavily, closing her eyes. Without opening them, she said, “Nymeria wants me to come back to Dorne. Doran has commanded it.”

Dany’s breath seemed to freeze in her lungs. “You cannot,” she said. “I won’t allow it.” She reached out and grabbed Alysanne’s face in her hands, eyes roving over her as if she could hold her there under her gaze forever. “You will not leave me.”

“No,” Alysanne said, eyes open now and blazing with determination, her own hands coming up to rest over Dany’s. “I will never leave you. Until the end, remember?”

“Until the end,” Dany said, and kissed her. It was a desperate kiss, but gentle. It felt as if they were standing on the precipice of something as imposing as the dragon pit, and perhaps even more dangerous. But why should that be? Dany would not let Doran Martell take Alysanne from her. It was not for him to interfere with their love, or with the prophecy that had brought them together.

Their foreheads were touching, skin on skin, warm breaths mingling in the dank air. “Dany,” Alysanne whispered. “I have to do something. I should have done it a long time ago. It’s…” She stopped, drawing a shaky, almost agonized breath. Dany drew back, looking at her in concern. “This is my fault,” Alysanne said. “Everything is my fault." Dany opened her mouth to protest, and Alysanne held up a hand. "No, please, do not naysay me. Here.”

She reached into her gown and pulled something out, holding it up so Dany could see it in the torchlight. “It is Ashara Dayne’s ring. The ocean’s amethyst. It’s all I have of her. You must take it.” Dany did, closing her fingers around it and staring at the jewel. It was the colour of Dany’s own eyes. In the light of the torch, it seemed aflame. “Put it in your pocket and keep it,” Alysanne urged her.

“I don’t understand,” Dany said desperately, placing the ring in the inner pocket sewn into her gown and pressing her hand against it. She imagined she could feel the warmth from where it had nestled against Alysanne’s skin. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“Because I love you,” Alysanne said. She stepped away from Dany, toward the edge, and looked down. Rhaegal tilted his green head up to her and roared. When Alysanne turned back to Dany, her face was wet with tears.

“Explain this to me,” Dany commanded her. She wanted to go to Alysanne and hold her, but she stayed herself. The cold logic of the queen was beginning to replace the warmth of the lover. Something was wrong here. She did not believe, in her gut, that Alysanne would betray her. The way her dragons reacted to her spoke no lies.

Yet something was amiss.

As Alysanne opened her mouth to speak, there came a pounding on the doors. The guards heaved them open slowly, metal grinding against the stone floor.

“Your Grace,” one said. Something in his face spoke the words before his lips could. “It is Irri. She is dead.”

***

Alysanne did not remember how they arrived two floors up. She and Dany had run together, side by side, casting aside dignity to race headlong after the Unsullied guards.

And there she was, lying in the corridor on her side, the hilt of a dagger protruding from her belly.

Until that moment, Alysanne had held on to hope even as it ran through her fingers like grains of sand. Irri couldn't be dead. She had been alive that morning. Her skin had been glowing, her eyes bright. She had laughed like a bell and her skin had been warm when she had wrapped her arms around Alysanne's shoulders. Death had no place with her. 

But death had cruelly invited itself where it was unwelcome, and it covered Irri like a shroud. Her skin held no lustre, her eyes were unseeing. Her mouth was still and her skin would feel like ice. 

Above them, Alysanne was sure that the stars were, even now, falling to earth. The waves had gone still on the shore and the sun would, any moment, go dark.

There was a window beside them. Long, interminable moments passed and the sun went on shining, painting the scene garishly bright. And that was the worst thing, wasn't it? The way the world kept going?

Silent as a shadow, Dany moved to Irri's side and lifted her head into her lap, gently stroking her dark curls. There was a dark pool of blood underneath her, Alysanne noticed. It was soaking into Dany's skirt, staining the pale blue fabric a blood red.

_The wolfswood the blood the snow -_

Alysanne reached a trembling hand up to her sweaty forehead as if she were trying to hold her mind together. The threads of her sanity felt as though they were being picked at, one by one, until they hung loose.

"Whoever did this will pay." Dany's voice was deep and slow and powerful. Alysanne felt herself nodding. They would pay, she thought. There would be no mercy for them, not like there had been for that man in the wolfswood, with the blood and the snow... "They will pay the ultimate price," Dany went on, biting off each word with force. "They will hurt as they never dreamed they could." _Like we're hurting_ , Alysanne thought. But even then in that moment of wrenching agony, she knew the truth: all the death in the world couldn't replace Irri's life. It wouldn't bring her back, laughing and whole. They could burn cities to the ground and she would still be dead.

“This one does not know who killed her, my queen,” one of the soldiers cut in. “The guards Blazing Arrow and Iron Wing found her and alerted these ones, who came to find Your Grace. She died a short time ago, for we patrol these corridors with great care.”

"It was Nymeria," Alysanne said, speaking for the first time. She was amazed her voice still worked. Shouldn't some part of her be missing now that her friend was lying dead before her? Shouldn't she be quiet and still just like her? 

"Nymeria," Dany said softly, eyes on Irri's face. Alysanne walked forward and discovered her legs still worked too. Time was lurching along and they were all still living. The sun would complete its arc across the sky and the tide would go in and out with the silver pull of the moon. And Irri would still be dead.

Alysanne knelt next to Dany and placed an arm about her warm shoulders. She wanted to look away from the shell of what had been Irri, but instead she reached out a shaking hand. She wanted to pull it away, but instead she placed her fingers lightly on Irri's eyelids and thanked the gods and the stars that there was no resistance as she slid them down over Irri's sightless eyes. Dany whispered something in a language Alysanne didn't know.

"What does it mean?" she whispered back.

"May she ride forever through the night lands, the stars as her _khalasar_."

Quietly, reverently, Alysanne repeated the prayer in the Common Tongue. There was a rustle of movement and when she looked up, all of the soldiers had removed their helms and were holding them to their chests. In one motion, they bowed their heads.

“Fetch me the prince and his cousin,” Dany ordered quietly. She was still cradling Irri’s head. “Bring them before me.”

The blood was on Alysanne's skirt now too, and her face felt damp. Whether it was with sweat or tears, she couldn't say. Her stomach lurched, and she breathed deeply through her mouth. 

"We should move back," Dany said, voice still soft. "She must be burned soon."

They stood together, and Alysanne wasn't sure who was supporting whom, but she knew that neither could have done it on their own.

Then she saw it.

Her vision tunnelled until it was all she could see. The jade hilt was unmistakable.

It was her own dagger, protruding from Irri’s belly.

She thought of the secret compartment in her trunk. If Doran had told Nymeria of it, then…

Nym always had been good at picking locks.

The knowledge that Irri was dead because of her should have had her screaming on the ground, or beating her fists against the walls and wailing, or grabbing the nearest spear and finding Nymeria and plunging it through her heart.

But she did none of those things, because deep inside she was still that little girl in Dorne who didn't want to hurt anyone, who would rather watch the world freeze than light the match to save it. 

And in the end it might destroy her.

At last, Nymeria and Quentyn were brought before them. Nymeria raised her eyebrows when she saw the body, as if she were surprised. Quentyn couldn't seem to bring himself to look at Irri at all, or at anything but the ground.

“I do not wish to hear any more lies and deceit,” Dany said, stepping forward. She was the dragon queen in every way, fierce and utterly untouchable. “I have found my friend and handmaiden killed within my own walls. Do not pretend you know nothing. Speak now and admit the truth, and the manner of your death may be gentler.”

Quentyn looked uneasy, but Nymeria seemed, as always, unaffected. “Your Grace, I promise you we know nothing of this.” She leaned over Dany’s shoulder, peering at the body. Alysanne stepped between them, blocking Irri from her view, but Nymeria merely tossed her head as if a fly had landed in her braids. “Wait a moment,” she said, eyes narrowing. Then she closed her eyes and let out a long, weary sigh, as if what she was about to say pained her terribly.

“Do not try my patience with your games!” Dany snapped. “If you have something to say, speak.”

Nymeria shot Dany a look of contrition that was so convincing even Alysanne almost believed her. “As much as I’m loath to impugn the honour of my dear foster cousin, Your Grace, my loyalty to you demands that I tell you that the dagger used to kill your handmaiden is my cousin’s own.”

“Your cousin has no dagger,” Dany replied, not even hesitating. “Do not dare to come before me and attempt to blame Lady Alysanne for this.”

“Your Grace, I can prove it,” Nymeria said.

Dany turned to Alysanne. “What is she saying?” she asked. Her eyes were wild with grief and confusion. “Alysanne, say something!”

“I had nothing to do with Irri’s death,” Alysanne said. The words stung the back of her throat. “I swear on my life. On my mother’s life.”

Nymeria raised her eyebrows. “That is another matter entirely, Your Grace,” she said. “Her mother’s life, indeed. You do know who her mother was?”

“Her mother was Ashara Dayne,” Dany said, fists clenched at her sides, nearly shaking with anger. “If you do not stop speaking in riddles –”

“You have been misled, Your Grace.” Quentyn finally spoke. He looked upset, but determined. He did not meet Alysanne’s eyes. She remembered with startling, abrupt clarity how she had made a little crown of larkspurs for him when she had been ten and he eight, and how he had laughed and hugged her when she showed it to him. He had looked so happy when she had placed it on his head.

How things change as the sun makes that arc across the sky and the tides turn and the stars shine ever on.

“Misled?” Dany asked. She looked at Alysanne again. “How have I been misled?” Her voice was quiet now, the way the wind stops and the leaves in the trees go still before a storm.

“I will show you,” Nymeria said, and with the easy grace that came so naturally to her, she slipped her guards, produced a skin of water from within her jerkin, and emptied it over Alysanne’s head before anyone could move to stop her.

The water trickled down over Alysanne’s head and over her face. She couldn't see it, but she knew the water would be turning black. She tasted salt; it was water from the ocean. It was the only kind that would displace the dye.

How fitting it was, she thought, that water should be her undoing. _Fire and water. Forever at odds._

Out of the corner of her eye, Alysanne could see the shining silver-gold strands of her hair in the sunlight. She wiped the water out of her face and looked into Dany's eyes. 

_Well, here I am_ , she thought. _Finally you see me."_

“What is this?” Dany whispered. She looked as if something vital had been pulled from inside of her.

“This is Rhaena Velaryon, Your Grace," Nymeria replied. Her voice sounded too loud and bright in the stillness. "Her mother was Alyssa Baratheon, granddaughter of Rhaelle Targaryen and sister to the usurper King Robert. She is the closest living descendant of Aegon Targaryen save Your Grace, Stannis Baratheon, and those little cousins of hers. Though, if you ask me, Robert’s children are Lannister bastards, all three.”

"Velaryon," Dany repeated. Her lip trembled, once, too quickly for most people to catch. Alysanne caught it, and those threads holding her together loosened again.

"Dany, please," she whispered. "It's alright. It's not what you think."

Dany didn't even look at her. “I thought House Velaryon died with Monterys Velaryon, who left no children,” she said.

“Oh, he left one child,” said Nymeria, tucking her water skin back into her jerkin. “A healthy daughter, in fact. But her mother gave her away to Ashara Dayne to take the place of the real Bolton baby, a stillborn.”

Alysanne wiped the water from her eyes again and watched Nymeria as she spoke. Something was stirring inside her - something she recognized. It was that beast that lived in her belly, that she so rarely let out to play. She was afraid of it - of its power.

Maybe she was done being afraid.

"My mother didn't give me away like a bolt of cloth," Alysanne said, and her voice sliced through the room like a sword. "She was protecting me and Ashara both. She sacrificed everything - "

"Silence," Dany said, and Alysanne wondered if it would have been less painful if she had slapped her. But she couldn't be silent.

"I am not loyal to the Baratheons," Alysanne went on. "I don't want to found House Velaryon anew. And I don't want - have never wanted - the Iron Throne. That's what Doran wants." She turned to Nymeria, and her rage bubbled to the surface. She let it. "It's all that you care about, isn't it? That bloody throne. You're willing to slaughter innocents for it, to destroy lives for it. But you've never cared about what happens after, have you? About ruling? No. Doran wants a sweet little queen on the throne so he can pull the strings from behind her. But he'll be disappointed. There are no strings for him. Not with her." She looked back at Dany, heart pounding, shaking with fury and grief and a giddy sense of relief. Nymeria opened her mouth to speak, but Alysanne cut her off. She looked into Dany's eyes, and Dany looked back. The world around them faded away until it was just the two of them, violet eyes meeting lavender. Targaryen and Targaryen, together at last. "I'm yours," Alysanne said. "Always. Not Doran's, not Roose's, not Nymeria's. Yours."

Dany looked down for a moment, and Alysanne held her breath. 

When she looked up again, those threads unravelled and she realized that they weren't holding her sanity together, but her heart.

Dany's eyes were devoid of their usual warmth. Her face was taut with anger. Alysanne looked for love and saw nothing but coldness. “You have lied to me again and again, and you expect forgiveness. You have betrayed me and you have betrayed this realm.”

“No.” Alysanne shook her head, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a golden strand of her hair winking pale in the sunlight. She would have ripped it out of her head if Dany had asked. But instead Dany was holding her underwater, pushing her down below the surface. She couldn't breathe. “I would never betray you.”

“You already have,” Dany said. Then she turned away and Alysanne wished for a single, mad heartbeat of agony that she had been in Irri’s place.

“You are banished from the city,” said Dany. “All three of you.”

The triumphant gleam in Nymeria’s eye faded. “Three of us, Your Grace? Surely you don’t mean –”

“I do,” said Dany. She wouldn't meet Alysanne's eyes. “I trust none of you. Leave the city immediately, and return on pain of death. My Unsullied will escort you to the gates of the Great Pyramid.”

“Your Grace, please –” Quentyn began.

“Be silent,” Dany snapped. “Be grateful I am not feeding you to the dragons."

"Dany, you can't do this," Alysanne said even as one of the guards took her arm. Dany had turned away, and Alysanne could see only her back and the waves of her silver-gold hair. 

How was it that she had lost everything in only an hour?

Well, that wasn't true, she realized as she was dragged down the hall, away from the body of her friend, from the woman she loved and, she realized with a jolt of desperation, from the dragons. 

Despite all of that, she still had something inside of her that would not be extinguished - not by death or rejection or fear. It was the fire that had lit her way from within Winterfell's walls and across the narrow sea. It was the flame that had burned bright within her when she had traded the seat of Starfall for Loreza's freedom and when she had held a dagger against a man's throat on that horrible day in the wolfswood.

Maybe it was the blood of the dragon. Maybe it was simply her own spirit.

Whatever it was, she knew now that she carried it inside herself like a torch. Even when her heart was shattered and her happiness in shards, the flame burned on.

And so she knew, somewhere in the depths of that shattered heart, that she would find her way back to her queen.

And she would not let Irri's killers go unpunished.

***

> “O God! can I not save  
>  One from the pitiless wave?  
>  Is all that we see or seem  
>  But a dream within a dream?”  
> 

-Edgar Allan Poe, _A Dream Within a Dream_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alyssa Baratheon is a figment of my imagination, but all other mentioned characters are canon. Alysanne had to be descended from Aegon through the female line for reasons which will, for now, remain a mystery. 
> 
> If you have other questions, the next chapter (already published) might answer them.
> 
> For the uninitiated: https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Tragedy_at_Summerhall
> 
> Larkspurs (as mentioned in Quentyn's flower crown) can represent fickleness.


	15. Interlude: Heart of My Heart

The pain was over, but the worst agony had just begun. The child had slipped from her soundlessly, and the midwife, a girl of barely seventeen, had quickly wrapped it in a cloth. 

“It was a girl,” the young woman said, as if it mattered. Then again, maybe it did. Maybe it made it a little easier. It wouldn't have been a kind fate to be the daughter of Roose Bolton.

But she had been Ashara’s daughter, too, and now she was dead.

Alyssa was quiet next to her. Her left hand was on Ashara’s head, the right still holding her hand as Ashara delivered the afterbirth. Once it was over, the midwife slipped out of the room, the silent bundle in her arms.

“He’s going to have me killed,” Ashara said quietly. "He's going to have me killed like that woman he raped last year. The one who delivered a deformed babe. He had them both smothered." Her voice cracked and she gasped, breath scraping against her raw throat. 

“Please, Ashara. You're torturing yourself. That's only a rumour,” Alyssa said as she stroked Ashara's curls, but even she didn’t sound convinced.

“Of course it's a rumour, but that doesn’t make it untrue,” Ashara said. “My life has ended with that dear child’s.” She let out a high-pitched keening sound, arms folded across her still-rounded belly as if protecting it. “The gods have cursed me," she sobbed, and Alyssa held her in her arms, rocking her gently back and forth. She had never seen Ashara like this. Before marrying Roose, she seemed to have always been laughing. When Alyssa had come to visit her at the Dreadfort, she had been shocked to see Ashara looking so lifeless. She knew that it was fear. The Dreadfort was a dark place. It was in the stones, in the walls, in the stale air. 

The two girls had grown up together, both in service to the Princess Rhaella as maids in waiting. They had seen each other through all the travails and tragedies of childhood and adolescence and now, in their mid-twenties, the bond of friendship had proved enduring.

The realm was crumbling around them. Aerys’s madness grew worse each day, and Robert was growing restless. His last letter to Alyssa had ranted of the attentions Prince Rhaegar showered upon Lady Lyanna Stark, Robert's own true love. Alyssa sensed that something momentous was about to happen, something that would change the course of their futures and their children’s.

She thought, as she always did, of her little baby, lying in a cradle two rooms over. Her daughter was the most important thing, the sun around which Alyssa’s world revolved. But she, too, was a storm waiting to break. It was in her blood, in her bones, just like it was in Alyssa's and, she suspected, in her grandmother's. Rhaelle had kept the secret, or maybe she had never known. Alyssa had found it in herself when she was fourteen, and she had kept it hidden ever since. But if someone found out about Rhaena now... 

They had perhaps a day before Roose returned to the castle. Ashara’s labour had been sudden and early, and Roose and his envoys, including the maester, were away. It was plenty of time to do what had to be done. To save them both.

“It is alright, my dear friend,” she whispered into Ashara’s ear, arms still around her shoulders. “I am going to help you.”

It was as if Ashara did not hear her, so lost was she in her grief. Alyssa hastened out of the room and down the corridor. Every step was a struggle. What would Monterys say? He had never even met his daughter, though he had written to express his delight in her birth. He was a good man, not the kind who resented having a daughter instead of a son. He would name her his heir, he had told Alyssa. Their firstborn.

Almost eleven months ago, Alyssa had journeyed northward to visit the newly married Ashara. Soon after arriving, she began to suspect that she was with child. She hadn’t wanted to risk travelling back to Driftmark lest it injure the babe, so she had stayed, and she and Ashara had been each other’s companions during their pregnancies. They had hoped the children would be friends.

Hope and fate did not always intertwine. 

Alyssa's daughter was called Rhaena, after the conqueror Queen Rhaenys. Alyssa could only hope, for she might never know, that this girl would be as strong as Rhaenys was.

Rhaena stirred, opening her pale purple eyes. Alyssa closed her own eyes and placed the child against her shoulder, her face crumpling with the effort of holding in her tears. She pressed her cheek against Rhaena’s downy head, upon which hair sprouted silver-gold, and breathed in her soft, clean scent. If she had been a more selfish woman, she would have held Rhaena in her arms forever. She would have let the world crumble to dust around them if it meant she would never have to part from her daughter.

Alyssa Baratheon was not a selfish woman.

“My girl,” Alyssa whispered to the baby. “My precious girl. I love you so much. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” A quiet sob tore at her throat, and she rocked the baby gently, knowing that this might be the last time she had the chance. They should have had years, and now they had only minutes. “Remember that you’re destined for great things. The blood of the dragon runs fierce in you.” She turned and pressed a kiss to Rhaena’s head. The tears on her cheeks dripped onto the baby’s hair. “Live your life in peace and freedom. Belong entirely to yourself.” One last kiss, one more shaky breath, one more crack in her heart before it shattered. "That's all I want for you."

Back in Ashara’s bedchamber, she placed her baby in Ashara’s arms. Ashara, startled, took the baby on instinct.

“You have the same eyes,” Alyssa whispered, grief crawling into her throat and choking her. “Look after her.”

“What?” Ashara asked. “Alyssa, you cannot give me –”

“No, I must,” Alyssa said, placing her hand on Rhaena’s head. Energy seemed to flow between them: the unbreakable connection between a child and the mother who loved her. “And you must do something for me. Tell the world she is yours and Roose’s, but send her to Sunspear - to Doran Martell. He owes my family a favour. Write to him and explain everything. She must be away from here, and disguised. Dye her hair. It will give her away as… as mine.”

“What are you talking about?” Ashara asked. “Have you gone mad?”

“No. But there are things you don’t know,” Alyssa said. “She is a special child, and it is not safe for her here. Robert is planning something, and she should have no part in it. He will be threatened by her. I can say no more.”

“Robert, threatened by a baby?” Ashara asked. “Speak plainly, Alyssa, I beg you.”

Alyssa’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Robert is growing ever more restless. He hints at rebellion in his letters. And Rhaena is… it’s better you don’t know. Doran will discover the rest in time, and he will help her. That is all I can tell you. Ashara, please. Give me your word that you will protect her.”

“You think your brother would harm his own niece?” Ashara asked, skeptical. She was cradling the babe against her chest.

“I know not. But I do not want her used as a pawn in the wars to come.”

Ashara looked up at Alyssa earnestly, purple eyes boring into blue. “I will protect her, Alyssa. I swear it. By the old gods and the new.” She bent down and kissed Rhaena’s little head, and Alyssa wanted to rip the child from Ashara’s arms and spirit her away to a locked room and fight to the death anyone who would take her away. “I will treat her as my own,” Ashara said. Her eyes were swimming with tears. “You've saved my life. But how will you explain her disappearance?”

“We’ll pay off the midwife and send her away,” Alyssa whispered. “As for me, I… I will carry a bundle of furs about. When we leave here, I will say she died on the road.” She breathed in deeply, trying to stem the threatening tears. _The blood of the dragon does not weep_ , she told herself.

“I will call her Alysanne,” Ashara said. “After you.”

Alyssa wanted to be glad, but she could not be. It felt as if her heart had flown away and been replaced with a heavy stone. How had she lived before this child? How would she live after? “Call her what you like. It doesn't matter what her name is. She will always be my daughter.”

***

Shortly after her daughter was sent to Dorne, Ashara Dayne threw herself from the highest battlements of the Dreadfort. Some said it was out of loneliness, but many whispered that Lord Bolton had poisoned her for failing to give him the legitimate son he so desperately craved, and she had wished to hasten her own end.

Upon returning to Driftmark, the seat of House Velaryon, Alyssa became ill with a fever. She called for her daughter with her dying breaths. Her husband, grief-stricken, never remarried or had any other children. House Velaryon died with him.

***

> “How best can I serve thee, my child! My child!  
>  Flesh of my flesh and dear heart of my heart!  
>  Once thou wast within me – I held thee – I fed thee –  
>  By the force of my loving and longing I led thee –  
>  Now we are apart!”  
> 

-Charlotte Perkins Gilman, _Mother to Child_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details around the "secret" about Rhaelle, Alyssa, and Rhaena have been purposely left vague.


	16. Soaring Ever Singest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the small hiatus. Last semester of uni got really busy and then I lost my grandmother over the holidays. I'm just now feeling ready to return to writing.
> 
> However, I have read most of the absolutely lovely comments that have been left and I will respond to them all as soon as possible. Thank you all so much for interacting with this story and sharing your kind thoughts. It's been truly touching.
> 
> You might also have noticed I decided to change the name of the story. I picked Writ in Blood on a bit of a whim and I've begun to regret it since as it didn't really fit with the story anymore. So this story is called Salt and Smoke and the series is called The Darkness and the Dawn. I'm not sure what part 2 will be called yet.
> 
> Hope you're all staying safe and healthy in these difficult times.

Alysanne, Nymeria, and Quentyn had been led down the paths leading from the Great Pyramid to the harbour, each taken in different directions. Obara and Quentyn had been led to the left, and Alysanne to the right. They had been told to get themselves on board the next ships leaving the city or be killed the next time they were seen.

Alysanne had not been given any other clothes or money, and she felt almost naked as she walked along busy streets and through market plazas, gathering herself and thinking about what she had to do next. Anger and grief threatened to overwhelm her, and determinedly she fought them off.

Slipping into an abandoned alleyway, Alysanne lifted her hair up to her face. Nymeria’s impromptu bath had left it streaked with black, but the silver-gold strands were unmistakable. She had to cover them. Not only was she supposed to be banished from the city, but Nymeria and Quentyn would doubtlessly be looking for her.

She did not think they would be taking ship for home either. They had come too far to give up, as had she, though they sought Daenerys for different reasons. They would be more desperate than ever, and therefore more dangerous.

She slipped into the marketplace, glad for the relative anonymity that came with the crowd. Fortunately, her silvery gold hair, while unique by Westerosi standards, was almost bland amidst the sea of colours and patterns that defined Meereenese fashion. She was surrounded by trident beards dyed green, former slaves with tattooed faces, and hair pinned atop heads to form stars and spears. Few people spared her a glance.

Then, ahead of her in the crowd, she spotted one of the Unsullied. She ducked behind a tall man wearing a large hat in order to escape the soldier's gaze. She tried to inconspicuously remain behind the man until they were in another section of the market.

To her horror, another Unsullied appeared behind her. They didn’t seem to have spotted her yet, but it was only a matter of time. She had to disguise herself.

There was a stall selling scarves just ahead of her, owned by an indolent-looking young man with his bare feet up on a large mahogany chest and his head bent over a book. He hardly glanced at customers as they approached, stretching out a hand to accept coins without examining purchases.

It would hardly be difficult…

No. No, she would not steal from an innocent bystander. There had to be another way.

Then she thought of her gown, a present from Dany on Alysanne’s twenty-first nameday. It was blood-red silk with a thin red cotton underskirt. Not bothering to slip away from the crowds, Alysanne reached under the skirt to the inner layer of fabric and, gritting her teeth, tore a piece away. She wrapped it around her head so her hair was covered and tied it into a knot at the top. She probably looked a little foolish, but it was better than being discovered. She hoped it would be enough.

The sun was beginning to lower, and the merchants were packing up their wares. The young scarf-seller with the book kept reading as he packed up his stall with one hand. Candles were lit in taverns, and people of all ages were sauntering along the cobbled streets, waving to one another and calling out in the Ghiscari tongue.

Alysanne walked for a while until she found a suitable establishment for a moment of respite: a decrepit tavern with a single lamp attached to its exterior, no door, and rotting stairs leading down into a dark interior. Trying to appear confident, she descended the rickety steps.

The inside was, as she had expected, filthy. The bar was covered with a layer of grime and the chairs looked half gone to rot. The only other patrons were a group of elderly people in the corner, talking amongst themselves. They didn’t look up when Alysanne walked in.

The owner, a sallow-skinned man of about seventy years, seemed as disinterested in Alysanne's presence as his customers. He was flipping through what looked like a notebook. However, when Alysanne took a seat in one of the chairs, his sharp eyes snapped to her.

He ambled over to her. “What you want?” he asked in a thick Ghiscari accent.

Alysanne daren’t accept anything, hungry and thirsty as she was. She couldn't pay for it. She would take some water from one of the common wells later. The wells were a point of great pride for her; she and Dany had spent several weeks overseeing their remodeling.

“I haven’t any money,” she told the owner. “Do you mind if I sit here a moment?”

The owner scowled at her suspiciously. “Never seen you before,” he said.

Alysanne forced herself to look unconcerned. “I’m sure you have,” she replied. Would this man report her to the queen? Was he some kind of spy, tasked with keeping an eye out for suspicious characters?

Finally, the old man shrugged. Without another word, he turned and meandered away, though Alysanne was aware of his eyes on her as he took up his place at the bar. She didn’t like the look of him. After a few more minutes, during which she sat and caught her breath, he disappeared into a back room and Alysanne decided that perhaps it was time to leave.

She hurried up the stairs, back out into the cooling evening air. It was darker now, and the street was lit with the soft glow of lamps. As she started to walk along the street, she went still.

Nymeria and Quentyn were walking along the street in the opposite direction, headed straight towards her.

Her first instinct was to run, to slip into the shadows and lose them. She took a step back, preparing to do just that.

But suddenly she found she was tired of running.

She took a deep breath and walked towards them. They were clearly surprised at this, and their faces took on almost amusingly identical looks of confusion when Alysanne turned a corner onto another street and gestured for them to follow. This was a wealthier avenue, lined with braziers, and it fronted one of the canals that flowed through the city. The water looked steely grey in the gathering darkness.

It was a commercial street and most of the little shops were closed. The three of them were alone. 

Alysanne turned and faced her pursuers, waiting for them to catch up. They stopped mere feet from her, Nymeria with her arms crossed and Quentyn beside her with a furrowed brow.

Then Nymeria grinned. “You have grown bold, cousin. I was expecting something of a chase."

“You are no cousin of mine,” Alysanne replied, feeling a fresh wave of fury roll over her. “And I don't know what you think you're planning next, but this ends now. The games, the lying - all of it. You've wrought enough pain for a lifetime.”

Nymeria raised her eyebrows. “Well, I see you've finally grown a spine, sweetling. Those are fighting words. But have you been training with sword and spear? I seem to remember a little girl quaking in her boots whenever her master at arms showed her anything sharper than a butter knife.”

Flushing, Alysanne responded, “I'm not asking to duel you, Nymeria. I'm telling you that whatever you do next, I will be one step ahead of you. When you turn your head, I will be there. And if you think to hurt anyone else, I will stop you.”

“With what?" asked Quentyn, and Alysanne was surprised at the scorn in his voice. He had been such a mild-mannered child, once upon a time. "You have no money, no skills, no real power. We'll return to Daenerys and she'll see reason. We have fifty thousand swords, after all, to lay at her feet if she marries me. And what do you have for her? Your cunt?"

Alysanne bit back a sigh. Why did it always have to be about her cunt?

"As I recall," Alysanne said with mock-thoughtfulness, "she was more interested in what's between my legs than any offer of what's between yours. You offered her fifty thousand and one swords, I think, and she turned them all down."

Quentyn flushed a dangerous red as he took her meaning and she knew she had been unwise. He lunged for her as she had known he would and she stepped behind a brazier, but Nymeria grabbed him around the waist and yanked him back before he could take two steps. Nymeria looked only mildly irritated, and she laughed as she wrestled to keep Quentyn from drawing his dagger. Alysanne just watched, her skin tingling. 

"Alright, children, that's enough," Nymeria said. Once Quentyn stopped struggling she loosened her arms, though she kept a piece of his shirtsleeve clutched in her fist. 

However, Quentyn wasn't finished. "You won't be so pleased with yourself when we've turned an assassin's blade away from your queen's heart tomorrow at the reopening of the fighting pits just in time to save her life."

Nymeria's easy smile finally slipped off her face. She grasped Quentyn by the shoulder and shook him. "Shut your stupid mouth, Quentyn," she snapped even as he pushed her away, eyes fixed on Alysanne's face, eager for her reaction.

“It is how Barristan won her favour, so they say. By saving her life. We'll do the same. She'll have no choice but to marry her saviour.”

Alysanne’s whole body was prickling in horror. They had hired an assassin just so they could rescue the queen and gain her favour. It was outrageously stupid.

“No," she choked out, turning to Nymeria, her rage forgotten for a moment in her blind panic. "Nym, please. This could kill her. Do you think Doran would approve of this?"

Nymeria sighed, clearly annoyed that their plans had been revealed, but then she gave a weary shrug. "Nuncle isn't here. Our hired man will use a javelin and I'll knock it out of the way. The Unsullied will kill him and we'll come out looking very heroic indeed. You've seen me in training. I never miss."

Alysanne's mind was tripping along desperately, trying to snag on something that would show them how wrong they were. Why would Nymeria be so cavalier? She was arrogant, but also too shrewd to gamble so freely with such an important life.

Then it dawned on her, and she could have screamed.

"It doesn't matter to you if she dies, does it?" She should have seen it. For all her brave words, how many times would she find herself three steps behind Doran Martell? 

"It doesn't matter, because if she dies, you still have me."

"Well," Nymeria said slowly, and there was something of that familiar self-satisfied glint in her eye again, "I would have preferred that you not find out this way, but you're right. Daenerys is no use to us if we're forever banished from her sight, and this might be the only way to win back her trust. And Doran didn't simply give up on you when you ran away. He has always wanted both you and Viserys in his pocket. Then after Viserys died, he started plotting to ensnare Daenerys. But even Doran can't anticipate everything, and when you flew off across the narrow sea he was rather upset." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Just between you and me - his reaction was rather funny. But he couldn't have the two of you joining forces. You were always meant to stay far apart, because -"

"Because he never intended for both of us to live," Alysanne finished for her. Of course Doran wouldn't be happy with just one Targaryen heir. He had to control them both with half his power right up until the point when he would decide which one was worthy of his full support. After that, why keep the other heir alive? She would be nothing more than a threat. 

"He wanted to support both of us until one emerged stronger, then eliminate the spare."

Something in Nymeria's eyes told her she almost had it, but not quite. She tried again. "It was me," she said. "I'm the spare." It should have hurt, but instead all she felt was relief. She finally knew the truth, she thought - all of it, for once.

But Nymeria surprised her. "Well, perhaps," she said. "But I've always thought, sweet cousin, that if you reached your full potential, things might be different."

Alysanne shook her head, refusing to believe a word that came out of Nymeria's mouth. Her mind working furiously, she looked around for some form of escape. Her gaze landed on the flaming brazier next to her.

Then she had an urge, like something tickling the back of her mind. Nymeria's words seemed to ring in her ears like the vibrations of a bell: _if you reached your full potential..._ Back in the Great Pyramid, she had said something about a fire at Summerhall, had suggested there was something in Alysanne's past - in her blood - that she did not understand. 

Alysanne and Dany were two sides of the same coin, descended from a line of fire and blood. Doran did not want them together, did not want them to know of each other. He did not even want both of them to live.

When they were together, they threatened him. But this was about more than just politics.

Maybe there was one more secret she had yet to discover.

With a tentative hand, Alysanne reached out to the burning brazier in front of her and placed her hand on the blazing iron, plunging it into to the flames. They danced along her skin, brilliant orange and yellow against the darkening sky.

Nymeria and Quentyn were silent.

Alysanne held on.

There was a long silence. The flames were pleasantly warm against her skin. Slowly, she pulled her hand away.

It was unburnt.

“How long have you known?” Alysanne asked Nymeria. A queer sense of utter calm had settled over her. Memories were running through her head now, first droplets, then trickles, and then they came rushing in with the force of a river.

She and Arianne traipsing along the beach as children, Arianne complaining that the sand was burning her feet and Alysanne feeling nothing.

A cook shouting at her not to touch the edge of the iron stove as she reached for a piece of bread. Her fingers resting against it and then coming away smooth. _You're a lucky little thing _, the cook had told her.__

Her whole foot enveloped in flame in the wolfswood, the leather of her boot burned completely away and the skin beneath unmarked.

Nymeria ignored Alysanne's question, looking at her hand intently. “So it is true, then. Doran assured me it was, but I couldn't quite believe…” She trailed off on the last word. “Just come back with me,” she said. Her dark eyes glittered in the light of the flames. “I'm on your side, Aly. I'll protect you. It's you I want on the Iron Throne.”

_Because you think you can control me _, Alysanne thought but didn't say.__

“Don’t you understand?” Alysanne asked, still cloaked in calm. She felt her Targaryen blood more strongly now than ever. It seemed to sing in her veins. “I don't care about that. I never have.”

__"Horseshit," Quentyn scoffed. "You always thought it was your destiny. When you went off to Winterfell you were set to help Father take the North from the inside just to support your claim."_ _

__Alysanne shook her head, eyes closed. "Because I always did what I was told. But I'm done doing what I'm told, Quentyn. I'm done." She opened her eyes. "I won't be a puppet anymore."_ _

Nymeria looked at her with something like pity. “Oh, sweetling. Don’t you understand? That's exactly what you are.”

__Alysanne sighed. "That's what I was afraid you would say."_ _

__"Aly," Nymeria whispered, and she leaned forward, placing a gentle hand on Alysanne's wrist. "Don't you want to come home?"_ _

__"Of course I do," Alysanne whispered back, looking straight into Nymeria's depthless dark eyes. "And someday I will."_ _

“No,” Quentyn said from behind Nymeria, and both women looked to see him drawing his sword from its sheath. "You'll go now."

For once Alysanne didn't stop to think. She reached out for the brazier, grabbed it with both hands, and toppled it over.

Nymeria dove out of the way, but Quentyn wasn't quick enough. The flames caught the end of his cloak and began to lap eagerly at his boots and he screamed, stamping his feet on the ground and ripping his cloak from his neck. The sight filled Alysanne with horror, piercing through her moment of self-assuredness. She realized she did not know what it felt like to burn, but Quentyn was leaping about in a frenzy, in pain or terrified or both.

For a heartbeat she remembered Irri's sightless eyes and considered simply walking away and letting him burn.

Then she remembered her mother, placing her into the arms of Ashara Dayne to protect them both. Her mother must have known there was something different about her, even then. Rhaena Velaryon had ceased to exist that day, but Alysanne was still here. And she was her mother's daughter.

And there was nothing inside her that would allow her to burn a man to death.

The fire began to trail its way up Quentyn’s calves. Nymeria was trying to smother it with her own cloak while shepherding Quentyn toward the canal. He was too panicked to think of jumping into the water and Nymeria couldn't get too close to him without being burned herself.

__Alysanne rushed forward and grabbed Quentyn around the waist. The flames swept eagerly along her skirt and she felt a tingling warmth around her legs. Quentyn's screams seemed to tear at her skin as she dragged him to the edge of the street and pushed him into the canal. The water doused the flame in his legs and splashed up onto Alysanne's skirt, leaving the fabric smoking._ _

__Quentyn started to move his arms to stay afloat, moaning in agony. Nymeria darted around the now-extinguished brazier and reached out to pull him to the edge, ignoring Alysanne for a moment. She saw her chance and ran._ _

She was tired of running, but now it was her only choice. She had a task before her.

***

Dany had hardly slept. She had never felt more alone than she had last night. It seemed that everyone she loved was destined to be taken from her. Drogo, Jorah, Barristan, Irri. A fifth whose name she could not even bring herself to think. A woman with two names. The thought of her was like rubbing salt in a raw wound.

The ring was still in her pocket. Dany took it out and held it in the palm of her hand, staring at it as if transfixed. It was like trying to read a book in a language she didn't know. Alysanne had given it to her in the dragon pit. Why? Some sort of apology for lying and tricking her all these months?

She had ordered for Irri to be burned with high honours, and had excused Jhiqui from her duties. However, her handmaiden had insisted on staying with her. She seemed to want to be distracted from her grief.

So, for that matter, did Dany. _The blood of the dragon does not weep_ , she reminded herself. _I cry tears of fire, not water_. 

So why did she feel that, if she started crying, she would drown in it? She had been so angry, but it was as if the anger had carved out a hollow core inside her, aching to be filled.

The fighting pits were reopening today, an event Dany had been dreading but now could hardly bestir herself to care about. As she broke her fast with food that tasted like ash on her tongue, she looked over at the bed where she and Alysanne had come together on the blissful night before it had all been destroyed. She turned her face away from it, biting the inside of her cheek. She felt utterly lost.

The dragons had been drawn to Alysanne, and she to them. Dany had been so certain that she had finally understood the prophecies she had seen at the House of the Undying - at least in part. Maybe she had no use for prophecies, after all. All they did was send her thoughts in circles. 

_Three treasons will you know_ , the Undying had told her. _Once for blood and once for gold and once for love_. Even now, deep in her heart, Dany could not believe that Alysanne would betray her. She had been a candle in Dany’s life, never flickering, guiding her steadily. Now the flame had gone dark, and Dany was left with the unsettling feeling that she had snuffed it out herself, and perhaps without due cause. Maybe Alysanne really was innocent in all this. Maybe she had been frightened and had kept the truth to herself not out of disloyalty, but out of uncertainty.

Dany finished dressing and went to the door. She usually liked to stand outside on the balcony in the mornings, but the place held too many memories now. 

Was Alysanne somewhere below? Had she dared to stay in the city? Should Dany send people to fetch her and bring her back? Let her explain? The thought of Alysanne by her side again filled her heart with relief.

 _No_ , she told herself. _You are being foolish, acting like a young girl again. Queens do not love their enemies, or miss them. They bathe them in fire and blood. Alysanne chose her own path._

Yet as she descended the stairs, flanked by her guards, the space next to her where Alysanne should have walked felt empty and cold.

***

In the morning, Alysanne began to make her way towards the fighting pits, hair still securely tied in its makeshift wrap. She had slept in an alley that stank of urine, huddled behind one of the many potted plants that decorated the city scape. It had been a fitful sleep, and she had awoken several times, eyes wide and heart pounding, looking about her for any sign of danger. She had not seen Quentyn or Nymeria, and she suspected they were hidden somewhere, treating the burns on Quentyn's legs. Nymeria wouldn't leave him, for letting Quentyn die would surely bring Doran's wrath down upon her. Alysanne hoped the burns would not be fatal, and even after everything Quentyn had done, she did not at all relish the thought of him in pain. 

So far, the Unsullied had paid her no notice and had given no sign of having recognized her. They were preparing for the queen’s descent into the city to attend the reopening of the fighting pits. The thought made Alysanne’s stomach turn over. It had been one of the few things she and Dany had disagreed on. Though Dany was morally opposed to the pits, the unity and the coin that their reopening would bring to the city had been irresistible. No slaves would fight, after all, and it would appease the former masters to have their traditions honoured. Alysanne, however, could not fathom a tradition that involved two people brutalizing each other to death before crowds of eager spectators. 

Dany must be dreading the day, Alysanne knew, for more reasons that one. Her heart ached when she thought of her facing it alone, but there were more important things at play. She had to warn Dany of what awaited her. She had thought of speaking to one of the Unsullied, but many of them did not speak the Common Tongue and she feared that, if they recognized her, they would slit her throat before she had the chance to open her mouth and warn them of what was coming. 

No, she had to speak directly to the queen. She had to believe that Dany would stay the hands of her guards long enough to let Alysanne talk. And then? In truth, she didn’t know. She determinedly pushed aside her fear. Dany would not really watch her be killed, would she? Not the woman who had looked down at her so lovingly such a short time ago, silvery hair a curtain around her face?

Even if she died, she thought, it would be worth it to save Dany's life. Not only because Alysanne loved her, but because Dany was a good queen. Thousands of people would benefit from her rule, and if anything happened to her, Meereen could be plunged into chaos. And somehow, she knew, her destiny and Dany's were intertwined.

There was no chance of getting close to Dany without some level of anonymity, but her rich red garb seemed to preclude that possibility, especially with the noticeable black streak on her skirt from where it had caught fire. She looked around, seeking inspiration. Part of her still expected Nymeria and Quentyn to emerge from the shadows, Quentyn with horrible burns and Nymeria with her dagger at the ready, prepared to murder Alysanne and Dany both.

What if, she wondered with a piercing stab of fear, she had signed Dany's death warrant by burning Quentyn? After all, now there was no one to stop the assassin but her.

Then her eyes alighted upon a group of the Red Graces, women and girls of the pleasure gardens of Meereen, and she had a flash of inspiration. They all wore deep red gowns with low necklines, similar to the one Alysanne wore. Some of the gowns were silk, some satin, many nearly transparent. Several of the girls, Alysanne noticed, looked very young. She would have to speak to Dany about that, she thought, before remembering that she might never speak to Dany as an advisor again.

She took a deep breath and started toward the Graces. Her gown would blend well with theirs. She could hide among them as they trailed through the city, cloaked in anonymity.

Then she remembered that the Graces were likely heading for the fighting pits themselves. Dany had mentioned that they were eager for the fighting pits to reopen because they were often filled with eager and willing clientele for the pleasure gardens. 

As the group passed, Alysanne slipped in towards the back. She tried to be surreptitious, but she tripped on a rock and stepped on someone’s foot, and they drew a sharp intake of breath. Alysanne turned around to apologize and make some excuse for her sudden appearance in her rudimentary Ghiscari. But she saw, with a jolt, that the girl she had stepped on was Loreza. Recognizing each other, they both stopped walking, looking at each other in surprise.

Alysanne thought of turning and slipping into the crowd lest Loreza give away her identity, but she had to know if the other girl was alright. Wordlessly they started to walk together, side by side.

"You're a Red Grace now?" Alysanne asked quietly, trying not to sound too dismayed. Surely Loreza had tired of this kind of life? Of a parade of men intent on using her body for their pleasure?

“Her Grace offered to let me serve as a cupbearer, but I am too old for that. This is all I know how to do.”

Alysanne glanced at her, bemused. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen. 

Loreza noticed the look on her face and sighed. “When I was eight years old,” she said, "my uncle sold me to a pillow house in Lys. They taught me a great many things there about pleasing men, and a few about pleasing women too. At first I would try to remember the faces of the men who raped me, but soon they all looked the same. I tried to kill myself by jumping out a window when I was ten, but they caught me. That's when I was given to Maron. He likes to take the broken ones. He finds it exciting, I think - other people's pain, I mean. The day you came to the tent, he had raped me three times already. He would have done it a fourth time if you had left without me. Instead he did it to another girl, I have no doubt. He'll have a new unlucky favourite by now. But my only memories of being free are like mist. Some of my memories are false, I think, ones I made up as a little girl to make myself feel better. I can see on your face that you don't understand why I would go to another pleasure house after everything. But after everything, where else is there for me to go?”

A short silence followed Loreza's words, and Alysanne finally said, "I'm sorry that you've endured so much pain. It doesn't mean you have to be in chains for the rest of your life."

Loreza laughed quietly. There was no humour in it. "Compared to seven years ago, I am freer than a skylark. But what of the others in Maron's camp? Have you gotten them out yet?"

Alysanne flushed with shame. She forced herself to meet Loreza’s light blue eyes. “I'm very sorry, but no. We will as soon as we can,” she promised. It wasn’t enough, and they both knew it. In truth, Alysanne could make no promises until Daenerys was safe and had forgiven her.

“I see.” Loreza didn’t look impressed.

“Loreza,” Alysanne said, lowering her voice even more, “something has happened. The queen is in danger.” Then she had an idea. “Loreza, do you think you could speak to one of the Unsullied in the Ghiscari tongue? You would be rewarded for it, and you would be doing the queen a great service. Tell them –”

But Loreza was already shaking her head. “No. We are not permitted to speak to men unless we plan to take them to bed.” Alysanne was dismayed. They were getting closer and closer to the fighting pits, and there was still no sign of Dany. What if the worst came to pass?

Loreza put a hand on her arm, distracting her for a moment. “You took me away,” she said. “After you've saved the queen, help the other girls. You and Daenerys are the only ones who can."

Alysanne nodded, but Loreza was already slipping away into the sea of red. _After you've saved the queen_. How could Loreza have so much faith in her? Alysanne looked into the crowd of girls for her, but she was gone.

Reznak’s Pit was looming before them. In a moment, they would pass through the Gates of Fate. Alysanne had not seen the gates until this moment, and the sight of them sent a pang of revulsion through her heart. They were monumental structures engraved with the names of all the slaves and warriors who had died in combat in the fighting pits, and at the top were two bronze statues poised mid-fight, wearing twin looks of rage and levelling their spears at each other's hearts. Alysanne thought of the sand in the pits stained red with blood, spreading the way the blood had spread in the snow in the wolfswood. 

A tide of panic began to rise in her chest. She still had no idea how to rescue Dany. She looked around for a potential assassin, but her eyes landed on something else and for a moment she couldn't breathe. 

There was Dany, high above her in the gallery. Even from this distance, she exuded an aura of power. She looked resplendent, her hair streaming loose over her shoulders, shimmering in the sunlight. Alysanne wanted to scream out her name and, more than that, to run into her arms.

Many of the Red Graces were already separating from the larger group, heading for promising-looking targets. Alysanne spared a moment to look around for Loreza, hoping that she would be alright. It was not only Dany who was depending on Alysanne stopping this assassin. It was people like Loreza who needed someone in power who would advocate for their interests. Few knew it, but the realm was holding its breath, for whatever happened next could send the world into chaos.

She hastened up the steps towards Dany. Love and fear battled for precedence in her head, and still she climbed.

She had finally drawn level with the royal gallery when she felt a hand on her backside. Flinching, she shoved it away and turned, only to be met with the flummoxed and irritated face of a heavyset man with ruddy cheeks and a dark green beard shaped like a swallow tail. He said something to her in irritated Ghiscari. She didn’t understand a word. He grabbed for her again, and this time she pushed him away with more force. She spat out the Ghiscari word for _no_. She wished she knew enough of the language to say, _If you keep pawing at me, you'll open the door for the queen's death_. She felt like a desperate child as the need to be with Dany overwhelmed her. To keep her queen safe and to be protected in turn would be the greatest gift in the world.

The man reached for her again, and Alysanne pushed him again. This time, he stumbled and she feared he would fall down the steps and break his neck, but he righted himself and she backed away only to feel yet another unfamiliar hand, this time at her elbow. She jerked away.

But when she looked, she saw that the person behind her was not another aggressor but an Unsullied guard. She was comforted for a moment, but she quickly became afraid again as she realized she might have been recognized. 

To her relief, he only said, “My queen has asked me to escort you to safety in the royal box.” He didn’t recognize her, then, and apparently neither had Dany from such a great distance. Alysanne’s heart ached at the kindness of the gesture. It was so very like Dany to do such a thing for a stranger. More importantly, it was an opportunity to get close to her.

Without sparing another glance for the man who had grabbed her, Alysanne lowered her head as the Unsullied led her back toward Dany. She tugged at her makeshift hair wrap so it cast her face in shadow. The Unsullied stopped and she halted with him. She could see Dany’s feet in front of her. 

Then she looked up.

Dany had appeared concerned, but when she recognized Alysanne her face took on a look of such pain and anger that it left Alysanne breathless. Alysanne had to speak, and quickly. She looked around for any assailants. When would they strike?

Grey Worm, standing at Dany’s right hand, grabbed his spear upon seeing Alysanne’s face, but Dany held up a hand to stay him. Hope blossomed anew in Alysanne’s chest, but the sight of Dany before her had rendered her mute. All she could do was stare, even as she willed herself to speak.

“I said I would kill you if you ever returned,” Dany said. “And now you have come back.”

"And you haven't killed me," Alysanne replied. She thought she saw Dany's lips twitch. Then she remembered where she was. They were not safe. This was not over.

"Listen to me,” she said. “Nymeria and Quentyn have hired someone to kill you. They planned to stop the assassination at the last minute, but now I don’t think they’re coming. Quentyn is... indisposed.”

Dany raised her eyebrows, her eyes glinting with suspicion.

“You may not trust me anymore, Dany. I've given you enough reasons not to. But this is my city now, and you are my queen, and there is nothing more important to me than that.”

Dany's gaze pinned Alysanne to the spot. She looked indecisive.

Then something caught Alysanne's eye. 

The blade of a dagger glinted in the sunlight. It was the Unsullied who had escorted her here, drawing the weapon from his belt.

The Unsullied seemed at times a single-minded entity, but this was an illusion. Thousands and thousands of Unsullied made up that entity, and of course some of them could be bought. Of course there were some who wanted a taste of power and wealth after suffering innumerable, decades-long horrors with death as their only escape.

Grey Worm and Dany’s other guards were too far away to reach the assailant in time. Dany was seated and trapped. Alysanne was perfectly positioned. There was no fire between her and the dagger, no brazier to upend. 

The man aimed the dagger at the queen and pulled his arm back. As he thrust, Alysanne leapt between them. 

She had expected searing pain as the dagger entered her body, but at first there was only the impact. It was as if she had been punched by an iron fist. She was dimly aware of the assassin stumbling, not having expected Alysanne's sudden maneuver, and he let go of the dagger. A spear - likely Grey Worm's - lodged itself in his skull. Alysanne let out something between a scream and a sigh, relief and revulsion warring inside her. Dany was safe.

She looked down and her vision tunnelled as she saw the hilt of the dagger protruding from her hip. Her hands went to it, fluttering uselessly as slippery dark blood began to spread from the wound. When she pulled her hands away, they were wet. Her ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton, but distantly she could hear shouting.

Dizziness took hold of her and she fell to her knees as pain began to spread across her abdomen - a piercing, tingling pain that took her breath away. She heard shouts and clamouring as the Unsullied rushed to surround their queen. Someone kicked her by accident, but someone else grabbed her and pulled her out of the way of the stampeding crowd. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her belly and she cried out again. 

She forced herself to look down again and saw that her red dress had darkened even more with blood. The memory of the man in the wolfswood came back to her as it always did, the way his blood had stained the snow, spreading, spreading. Her breaths were coming in short, sharp gasps. Her vision had tunnelled further, the edges black and swirling with gold.

Then there was a warm presence at her side and Dany’s hands were on her face. Dany was gazing down at her, eyes brimming with fear. Alysanne did not remember lying down, but she must have, for she felt solid ground beneath her back. Dany looked so golden in this light, with the sun at her back. Alysanne gasped as a fresh wave of pain shot through her. Her stomach lurched. She had eaten nothing all day, and when bile rose in her throat she swallowed it. It made her cough, and the coughing made the wound hurt so much that when the spasms stopped she could not even move for a moment, just stare up at the blinding blue sky and think of nothing but the pain.

"Hush, hush, it's alright. I'm here. Look at me, darling," Dany was saying, and Alysanne tried desperately to concentrate on her voice - anything to anchor herself to the world of the living. Someone else was speaking, someone Alysanne couldn't see. They were asking Dany to leave the arena, but Dany responded vehemently: “I will not leave without her. Do not ask me again.” Then, to Alysanne, “Just look at me, sweetling. That’s it. I’m here. You’re alright.” There were warm lips on her forehead, and at their touch Alysanne felt herself grow stronger, just for a moment. Then she cried out again at a fresh stab of pain. She turned her head with an effort and saw an unfamiliar man pulling at the knife, trying to remove it from her hip. It felt as if someone was tearing into her with hot pliers.

“Stop that at once!” Dany snapped as someone else added, “Don’t take it out, fool. We need to keep it still to stop the blood flowing. Does anyone have a cloth?”

“Here,” Dany said, and then she was unwinding Alysanne’s scarf from around her head with gentle fingers. 

"No, don't," Alysanne cried out feebly. Dany couldn't take the scarf off because... why was it? It was becoming difficult to think. She was drifting in and out of wakefulness. She closed her eyes and saw herself sitting in front of a mirror, a faceless figure combing black dye through her hair. It was Doran, then Arianne, then Dany, then Alysanne herself.

The scene shifted, and she and Dany were on a beach in Dorne. Dany ran a hand through Alysanne's black hair. Everywhere she touched turned silver-gold. Then the silver-gold turned to fire and Alysanne was wearing a crown of flames. The sun was setting over the water, pink bleeding into red bleeding into gold. 

No - she was the one bleeding. She was in the arena and she had been stabbed. She must stay awake. She forced her eyes open and everything was horrible: bright and loud and painful. Her eyes began to drift shut again.

Was Dany kissing her cheek or was she still dreaming? 

Someone was calling her name, but she had already closed her eyes.

> ____
> 
> ____
> 
> ____
> 
> “Higher still and higher  
>  From the earth thou springest  
>  Like a cloud of fire;  
>  The blue deep thou wingest,  
>  And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest."  
>  -Percy Bysshe Shelley, _To a Skylark_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (So I know Dany isn't technically immune to fire in the books but it's more fun this way. The "why" will be explained at some point in part 2).


	17. The Loved and the Lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this ended up taking a lot longer than I thought it would, but such is life. I'm honestly feeling really emotional about this story coming to an end. It's the product of half a year's work and to have it finished is pretty overwhelming. I mean, there's still a sequel to contend with, but that will come when it comes. I may work on some other things first. We shall see!
> 
> As always, thank you all for your support for this story. I'm so grateful to everyone who has taken the time to share kind words. It's been a pleasure publishing over these past months. Looking forward to more in the future!

They were in the sick bay of the Great Pyramid, a collection of little rooms that held small cots and tiny windows that let in weak rays of sunlight. Dany sat on a hard wooden chair next to Alysanne’s bed, where she had been for four hours. She knew dimly that her back was aching, but every time she thought about moving the effort seemed too great. 

The Blue Graces – the healers of Meereen – had removed the dagger from Alysanne’s hip, stitched the wound closed, and applied a poultice to prevent infection. Dany had wanted to scream when she had realized that Alysanne might die of infection just as Drogo had. It would be a cruel joke from the fates, and Dany knew that it would be a loss from which she could never recover.

Alysanne had drifted in and out of consciousness as they treated her, and had talked desperately and almost without ceasing while she was awake. Some of it made little sense – there had been something about a burning canal – but Dany thought she understood enough from piecing together Alysanne’s ramblings. Doran Martell had planned to pit Dany and Alysanne against one another and eventually eliminate the weaker candidate once the throne was secure. _Alysanne must have given him a great shock by joining me_ , Dany thought, and it almost made her smile.

Alysanne’s silver-gold hair was soaked with sweat. Some black dye still clung stubbornly to it, giving her a sooty, dirty appearance. There were deep purple circles beneath her eyes, her cheeks were white, and her lips were bloodless. Yet all the features of her face that Dany had memorized without even realizing it – the way her mouth turned up just slightly at the corners, the tilt of her nose, the freckle by her right ear – remained. Dany loved her so much she felt it would tear her apart. 

The head healer had told her that the wound had been deep, but the dagger had not punctured anything besides skin, fat, and muscle. They had tipped milk of the poppy into Alysanne’s unconscious mouth, and now they had nothing to do but wait.

Wait and, in Dany’s case, think. Staring at these featureless walls for hours, she had relived the past days again and again. She knew she had failed not only as a queen but as a lover, and in truth she didn’t know which was worse.

Yet every time she looked at Alysanne’s pale face, she was overcome with the strange and uncomfortable feeling that she would give up this whole city just to see Alysanne open her eyes. 

Her thoughts, however, were not all of self-recrimination. Nymeria and Quentyn had escaped her clutches, but every time she thought of them a wave of pure fury would crash over her, and in its wake she would feel utterly clearheaded and murderous. She cared nothing for what they had tried to do to her; she had little doubt that at this very moment at least half a dozen plots to assassinate her were being hatched in taverns and brothels and inns from here to Lannisport. In all likelihood, none would come to fruition. If Dany spent all her time enraged at everyone who wished her dead, she would never be free to rule. 

It was their audacity that angered her. That they should think to step beyond the bounds of political maneuvering - that they should use her closest friends and her lover as pawns, even going so far as to murder one of them - was so underhanded and evil that it made her tremble with rage.

Dany was not her father, as she so often found herself thinking and saying. She felt no thrill from killing and derived no pleasure from burning. Part of her knew that she could still grant them mercy. They would be valuable allies, perhaps even indispensable. Between her fits of anger she almost considered it – approaching Doran Martell, swallowing her pride, and offering something besides her own hand in exchange for those thousands and thousands of glimmering swords.

But then she would look at Alysanne lying statue-like on the bed and reach out a hand to rest on her chest to see if she was still breathing. Once she felt the slow rise and fall of her lover’s breath, she would withdraw her hand and think of raining destruction on those whose actions had sent Alysanne to this bed. 

She thought of Alysanne in the early days of their friendship, when they had still danced around one another, denying the burning attraction that drew them together. She had said she loved Doran as a father. _I love him still, despite his flaws_. And Doran had taken that love and used it cleverly and deceitfully for his own ends.

Eventually she came to a decision. Not only would she never align herself with the Martells, but she would spend the rest of her life seeking revenge against them. If she had to wait until she was an old woman with snow white hair and wrinkled skin, then she would. But some day she would burn down Doran Martell’s spider’s web, pluck him from the centre, and crush him beneath her heel. 

She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not see Alysanne open her eyes, but she heard a weak moan and turned to see Alysanne looking at her, clearly dazed but aware. Eagerness, relief, and trepidation flooded Dany’s chest in equal measure as she waited for Alysanne to speak.

The silence seemed physical, stretching between them like an invisible string. Dany took a deep breath and cut through it.

“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly. These rooms seemed to command quietness, as if they still held the souls of all those who had suffered and died within them.

Alysanne winced. “Like all seven hells in one,” she murmured. Her words were slurred together, likely a combination of exhaustion and the effects of milk of the poppy.

Dany wasn’t sure if that was a joke, so she didn’t laugh. “Do you need water?” she asked, feeling suddenly very awkward. It was a foreign sensation to her these days, one she hadn’t felt since she was a child trailing in her older brother’s shadow. “Or perhaps you want me to leave? I understand if you don’t want me here after everything I’ve done. Just say the word, and I’ll send in someone else to take care of you. But you shall have the best of everything, I swear it.”

There was another silence. Alysanne just looked at her, then let out a long sigh.

“Dany,” she said softly, and Dany’s heart leaped to hear her say her name. She didn’t say anything else for a long moment, and Dany waited, holding her breath. Finally Alysanne spoke again.

“We have both made mistakes,” she said slowly, as if trying to make the words come out clearly. She was only partially successful. “We have both been blind and – ” She cut herself off with a wince, hand going to her hip, then continued. “ – and foolish and confused. But you are mine and I am yours.” She turned her hand over on the bed and Dany knew immediately what she wanted. She picked up Alysanne’s cool hand gently, reverently, and raised it to her lips and kissed it. Then she held it with both of hers. 

Alysanne sighed, smiling serenely. Her eyes drifted closed again. “You’re warm,” she said. “You’re always so warm. I’ve missed you very much.”

Dany was so overcome she did not trust herself to speak. There was a hot, tight feeling in her chest and she could hardly breathe. 

“Gods, I’ve missed you too,” she whispered. “But you must take none of the blame for what happened. I was the blind one, and you nearly died because of it. I am so very, very sorry. But I swear to you that I will never doubt you again. I will give you everything, Alysanne – everything. Every army I summon and castle I conquer will be in your name. And in the end, my love, I will give you the Iron Throne and you will rule over all Westeros. Not me.”

Alysanne’s eyes had been closed, listening, but she twitched in surprise and opened her eyes again at those last words, staring at Dany in that way that had always entranced her – as if she saw every part of her, right down to her bones. Then she shook her head.

“It’s a grand gesture,” she said softly. “But you know I don’t want that, Dany. I don’t want any thrones or armies or castles. There is one thing I want, and that is you and me, together, bringing peace and prosperity to the world. We are so lucky, you know, my love. We have been given a chance. Together we can create something more wonderful than this world has ever seen.” 

Dany reached out a tentative hand and stroked Alysanne’s sweat-drenched hair out of her face. She felt as if a part of herself had been chipped away and Alysanne had come along and pressed it gently back into place. She was whole.

“I love you,” Dany told her. “I love you so very much. I want to make you happy.”

Alysanne smiled. “Then marry me,” she replied.

***

And so two weeks later, they were married on the balcony at dawn.

Only Jhiqui and Grey Worm were present to witness their vows, and the marriage would remain a secret between the four of them for the time being. Neither Dany nor Alysanne preferred it that way, but they both agreed it was the wisest and safest course.

Alysanne was already feeling well enough to walk fairly long distances with hardly any help. The pain from the stab wound had decreased to a consistent, dull ache, and Dany was ever solicitous in ensuring Alysanne didn’t exhaust herself. She had helped Alysanne with her first steps out of bed, their arms linked together.

There was a thick, shiny red scar trailing down Alysanne’s hip onto her leg. The first time she had seen it, she’d touched it almost reverently. “I never thought I’d have a war wound,” she’d said. Dany had laughed and kissed her.

Now they were facing each other with hands clasped, looking into each other’s eyes. The clouds were pink and orange, and a soft breeze was blowing towards the west. Around their heads were garlands of moonflowers – the flower that Dany had placed in Alysanne’s hair on the night they had first kissed. 

Dany had grown up a wanderer, and she kept no particular faith or tradition. Alysanne had been raised surrounded by dozens of cultures and had witnessed numerous weddings, none of which were exactly alike. And so their wedding followed no rules, and was instead something entirely new – the joining of two hearts whose owners were never meant to set eyes on one another, who had been raised on opposite sides of the sea, who had come back to one another through death and deceit to reunite in fire and blood.

And, of course, in love.

They were surrounded by torches burning high in the semi-darkness. Dany’s hair was resplendent and loose about her shoulders, her eyes sparkling like the sky at twilight. Her red and black cloak rippled in the breeze. _Mine_ , Alysanne thought in disbelief. _She is glorious and she is mine._

There would be no priest to bless them as was the custom in Essos, nor would there be a septon as in Westeros. 

“In the days of the old gods, there were no religious officials to oversee weddings,” Alysanne had explained to Dany. “They simply took place in front of a sacred heart tree.”

Dany had looked at her in confusion. “But we have no heart tree,” she had said. “And you do not keep faith with the old gods.”

“No,” Alysanne had agreed, “but I’m saying that vows are vows. Some stuffy old man watching us makes no difference whether he is ordained or not. Any gods out there know, I’m sure, that a promise to be true to one another for the rest of our lives is the most sacred and powerful act of all.”

Dany had smiled fondly at her. “You really are a romantic,” she had said, and Alysanne had laughed. 

“I never said I wasn’t,” she had replied.

Now Alysanne smiled at the memory. She was surer than ever that this was right, and for once she wasn’t thinking about what it could mean for the future or trying to conceal herself inside a cocoon someone else had woven for her. She had sprouted wings and was soaring higher than ever.

The ceremony began. 

“Who comes to be wed?” Jhiqui asked in a ringing voice.

Alysanne had thought for a long time about her name. Her parents had named her Rhaena at her birth, but the name rang hollow now in her ears. She had been Alysanne for as long as she could remember. Her father had been a Velaryon and her mother a Baratheon, yet the house whose blood pulsed most strongly in her veins was the one she chose. She felt that her mother would have understood. 

“Alysanne of the House Targaryen,” she replied, still holding Dany’s hands in hers. 

“Daenerys of the House Targaryen,” Dany responded, smiling so widely you could hear it in her voice.

“Do you swear to love, honour, and protect one another; to stand by one another in times of sorrow, times of joy, times of poverty, and times of wealth; and to let no power tear you asunder?” Jhiqui asked.

“I do,” said Alysanne.

“I do,” said Dany. 

“You may exchange cloaks,” Jhiqui announced, and they did, removing their cloaks from about their own shoulders and turning – first Alysanne, then Dany – to allow the other's cloak to be draped about her shoulders. It might have seemed redundant to an outsider, for the cloaks were identically woven with Targaryen red and black. But enveloped in the cloak that Dany had been wearing mere seconds ago, Alysanne felt surrounded by the essence of her, as if they truly were becoming one. Judging by the look on Dany’s face, she felt the same. 

Once the cloaks had been exchanged, Dany took Alysanne’s left hand in her right and they approached a torch that Grey Worm held aloft. His frostiness towards Alysanne had dissipated since she had almost given her life for the queen, and now he held her in higher regard. He nodded to them as they came forward.

“Will you share your fire with one another for all the rest of your lives?” he asked them.

“We will,” Alysanne and Dany said in unison, and they placed their joined hands into the flames. The feeling of Dany’s hand immersed in fire alongside her own was so powerful it sent waves of pure bliss from the crown of Alysanne’s head to the tips of her toes, and she closed her eyes as the flames blessed their union.

Slowly, as if of one mind, they removed their hands – still clasped – and turned to face each other again. Dany’s eyes were brimming with emotion, and when she met Alysanne’s gaze she whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you,” Alysanne replied. It was the happiest she had ever been. 

Then they said in unison, with hands joined: “I am hers, and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days."

"You may kiss," Jhiqui declared, "and become one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

Dany and Alysanne drew closer together, their warmth mingling in the early morning air. 

"With this kiss," they said together, "I pledge my love."

Their lips met as the sun broke the horizon.

***

> “Love is enough: the World be a-waning,  
>  And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,  
>  Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover  
>  The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,  
>  Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,  
>  And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass’d over,  
>  Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;  
>  The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter  
>  These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.”

-William Morris, _Love is Enough_


	18. Epilogue: The Vanished Plain

She was cold.

She had been kissed by fire, but she was cold as ice.

Huddled, shivering, beneath the remains of what had once been her execution pyre, she had long since passed the point of tears. The salt had dried on her cheeks along with the ashes.

It was late at night, though she did not know the time. She couldn’t see the sky, but the shafts of weak sunlight that had been visible through the wood pilings had faded long ago. Even the drunken shouts of revelry from the camp had grown faint and eventually petered out. If the soldiers were sleeping, it must be very late.

Oh, gods, she was so very cold.

Slowly, trying not to make a sound, she pushed away one piece of charred wood, and then another. She gasped in pain as she stretched her half-numb arms and legs after hours of keeping them still.

When her father’s knights had tied her to the stake, she had been certain that her death was upon her. She had screamed and fought, crying out for her mother, her father, Davos – anyone who she thought loved her – to come and save her, to not let her burn. When the burning torch had been touched to the wood, and the smell of smoke had begun to fill the air, she had soiled herself. It didn’t occur to her to be ashamed of it, because that was what one did as she died.

But she hadn’t died. She had lived. The flames had begun to lick at her boots and she had wailed, pitifully, like a wounded animal. And then, gradually, she had become aware that she felt no pain. The soles of her feet were not burning. She had stopped screaming for a moment and looked out into the crowd, waiting for someone to notice. And then she had looked into the face of the Lady Melisandre, and she had known then that she had to pretend to be in agony.

So she had screamed, and it had not been entirely feigned. She screamed because her father had ordered her death, she screamed because her mother had supported him, she screamed because Davos hadn’t tried to stop them. She screamed because her father would rather sit in some twisted iron chair than see his daughter alive. She screamed because she was eleven years old and there was no one in the world who would lift a finger to stop her burning.

The flames had consumed her boots and dress eagerly, but when they met her skin all she felt was a pleasant, tingling warmth. She had wondered then, in a detached haze, if the gods were protecting her as she died because of the unjust nature of her death. Perhaps they were ensuring that her demise would be painless. 

Eventually, as the wood began to crumble, she had realized that the fire wasn’t going to kill her, but the wood might if it collapsed on top of her. The flames burned away the ropes binding her to the stake and caught her hair and burned that away too, but she was whole and unharmed. As the pyre began to disintegrate, she ducked down and covered her head with her hands, moving backwards through the blaze and pulling a couple of half-burned timbers on top of her to protect herself and hide from the crowd. She prayed that no one had seen her, surrounded as she had been by a wall of flame. She didn’t know why exactly, but she felt strongly that what they might do to her if they found out that she had survived could be even worse than the burning.

That had been hours ago, and since then she had been lying silently, growing colder by the moment, listening to the sounds of her father’s camp: horses snorting and stamping, men calling out to one another, the occasional interjection of a woman's voice. All of this had been meant to be hers one day – or so her mother had told her. _This is the king’s true heir_ , Selyse would say, in a tone that suggested she was trying to convince herself as much as everyone around her.

Well, she was nobody’s heir now. She had long dreamt of dragons coming to eat her, and she had thought those dreams frightening. But she had been a child then, and she had not known true fear. 

She slowly managed to extricate herself from the pile of wood covering her, and she crept out from behind the ruins of the pyre. The camp was still and silent. Her dress and shoes had burned away, and she shivered, thanking the gods the night was not so cold as the last few nights had been. Nevertheless, the chill prickled dreadfully along her newly bald head.

Staying in the shadows, she crept along the tents until she finally came upon an abandoned blanket lying beside the remains of a fire. She was small enough to use the blanket as a cloak, and she draped it about her shoulders and tied it at her neck, relishing the feeling of weight and warmth. She saw a pair of boots nearby that likely belonged to the same careless owner, and she slipped those on as well. They were far too big for her and her feet slid about in them as she walked, but it was better than walking on snow in bare feet. She also took the risk of pilfering some hard bread, cheese, and an apple from a saddlebag, for she didn’t know how far she would have to walk, though it shouldn’t take more than two days to find a village.

She thought again of her dragon dreams, where the dragons had devoured her whole. Perhaps, in her fear, she hadn't understood the dreams properly. Maybe she was both the dragon and the girl, and now the flames had devoured the girl's fear, leaving only the dragon behind.

She spared a final look at the camp. It was dark and desolate and, she felt, likely doomed. Burning her for her king's blood had been a final, desperate act. Now they had nothing.

Her heart had hardened when they had killed her, but still she spared a tender thought for Davos. He had cared for her, in his own way.

Though not quite enough, in the end. 

A tiny shadow in the light of the torches amongst the tents, Shireen Baratheon slipped silently out of camp and headed for the nearest town.

> “And now from heaven’s height,  
>  With the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed,  
>  And pelted waters, on the vanished plain  
>  Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash  
>  That splits abroad the pealing thunder-crash,  
>  Over bleared fields and gardens disarrayed,  
>  Column on column comes the drenching rain.”

-Archibald Lampman, _A Thunderstorm_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is! The final twist (for now).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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